


Samson

by ironicHeadtilt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blowjobs, Bottom Dean, Completed, Destiel - Freeform, Highschool AU, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pianos, SO MUCH SEXUAL TENSION, Sam and Gabe are friends, Sexual Tension, Smut, Top Cas, boys playing piano, hate snogging, hate to love relationship, i heard gay sex involved pianos??, im sorry, piano concert au, pianos are in this fanfic, topping from bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:12:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicHeadtilt/pseuds/ironicHeadtilt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When their shared music teacher puts Dean and Cas on the same piano duet for their school concert, they find themselves alone together every Friday in a dimly lit auditorium to practice their piece. Which would be much simpler if they weren't at each other's throats.</p><p>As the concert approaches, shit happens; and Dean and Cas seem to find themselves on the same side. Can pianos pierce through the veil and save the gay?</p><p>THIS WORK IS FINALLY COMPLETELY POSTED. ITS SO COMPLETE RIGHT NOW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

1.

The auditorium was empty. Row after row of empty seats played back the piano’s free form notes. The lights seemed awfully soft for a practice; a yellow glow seeping into a red-maroon darkness which appeared fluid, gliding around the boy’s athletic form as he made his way down the carpeted ramp towards the stage. The stage emitted its own light, its own brilliance. There was a hand, fingers outstretched, welcoming the audience to dare to own it. A TV screen with its own breath and sweat.

Cas was already sitting at his piano when Dean arrived.

He had the annoying tendency of being early; but on the other side of the coin, Dean knew it wasn’t exactly productive of him always being late. In the end, Cas had the habit of playing random bits of some song Dean had never heard of whenever he arrived. He also decided to not acknowledge Dean until Dean was sitting at his own keys, fingers ready.

Then Cas would usually start. And Cas would do his piece perfectly. And Dean would do his to some level of the same degree. And even though they’d never performed together before their shared piano teacher had assigned them to the same duet; even though they’d rather play the duet alone and sound like half a song, they played with heated fervor; their bodies ebbing with the music, their fingers working quickly and deftly and strongly. In short, they were trying to outplay each other because they both respectively thought they had the bigger dick.

But tonight was different. Cas was playing his tune; it was starting to sound like the same song every time. The same refrains, only a varied key or run, a drop in the notes that Dean’s mind automatically filled with increasingly familiar melodies. Dean had already sat down, but Cas continued to play. And continued to play. Dean wiped his hands on the legs of his pants, then sat them on the edge of the keys, then touched the keys with only the tips of his fingers, then moved them back. Still, Cas fingered on, the tune becoming just a bit more involved before receding away again.

Dean was tired. This was late at night and the last thing he had to do before the weekend. He had a job, was struggling to actually care about school, football practice right after; his entire week had been trying to be on time for everything and ending up being only semi-not-too-late to most things. This Friday had been especially weird because his dad was away again and that meant Dean had to drive Sam to school and soccer practice.

And on top of all of this, he was trying to figure out this stupid song. It was the stuttering in between his and Cas’ middle frames that his fingers twisted in on themselves. He could always do it alone; the piece went perfectly when he was alone - and he could just forget that this other guy was trying just as hard as he was to be impressive - that he could let his fingers do the staggering runs. But he always felt caught in between the notes in the auditorium. The sound bouncing back at him, Cas’ brow creasing when he could tell that Dean was losing it, the piano keys slicking with condensation and sweat.

Without thinking, Dean started playing that measure real time. His foot tapped on the pedal as he took it at about half the speed, his head turned low as he listened to the reverberation of the strings within the piano.

And, coincidentally, the keys fell in between Cas’ notes. Cas startled, his fingers pulling away from the piano. He hadn’t actually noticed Dean’s arrival. He was slightly indignant that Dean didn’t alert him, that he’d instead mock him by playing the song they were supposed to be practicing.

Cas’ song was abruptly stopped then, and Dean fumbled, the black compressing instead of the white. Dean, eyes glancing up at Cas’ scrunched up face, let his fingers trill down the length of the keyboard at the same off note that he’d mistakenly hit. Cas huffed out of his nose and countered the tune with an opposite beat on the lower end of the scale. His head tilted to the side, his eyelashes throwing shadows on his cheekbones. Dean’s temper flared at Cas’ stupidity. This wasn’t a fucking competition, man. It wasn’t Dean’s fault you ignored him when he walked in.

Dean knew Cas was the better piano player, but what Dean lacked in raw skill, he made up in sheer will power. He straightened his back and scoot himself closer to the piano as Cas finished off his little tantrum of a melody with the shittiest bravado Dean had ever heard. It had the exact same timbre as “Fuck You”. Dean’s fingertips hit the keys before Cas’ last note could die a proper death.

The hammers struck hard and long before Dean continued on some convoluted thing that made Cas’ fists clench. He was trying to find the moment to bust in with his own piece, but he couldn’t get in edgewise. Dean kept his eyes flicking from the instrument in front of him to Cas, a dark mischief brewing in them that Cas didn’t particularly enjoy. Dean’s lips twitched up into a smile.

Cas’ lips pressed into a line, fingers came down on the piano despite there not being a break in the noise. The auditorium was filled with a messy fuckall of operatic aggression. The notes fought each other in off-beat, taking control and subsiding and rolling and standing straight up. The music itself took on a warring dance, grabbing and clawing and screaming, neither wanting to lie down and die. Cas and Dean’s eyes had trouble deciding whether or not to rest on the piano or the other person, which lead to off notes within their own pieces. Somewhere, among the cries of desperation the strings gave under the barrage of hammers that plagued them, Cas completed an entire line without hitting a single correct key. In the flurry of frustration, he slapped both hands down in front of him, a burst of noise overpowering some off-kilter cover of “Simple Man” that Dean had scraped up from somewhere. His fingers wavered on the last few notes as Cas stood up suddenly, the bench falling back behind him.

“What is your problem?” He yelled sternly over the notes that still clung to the air. Any levity that Dean had retained through the ordeal fled the scene, leaving his eyes hard and dark.

“My problem? What’s your problem? I didn’t ask you to fucking attack me-“

“I didn’t-“ Cas threw his hands up then brought them to his face, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t attack you. Just- just learn your part.”

“I know my fucking part.”  Dean’s hands were still resting on the piano keys. “I just can’t- I can’t play it when you’re playing your fucking part.”

“That’s no excuse. I don’t understand what’s so hard about it. If you know your part, then play it.” Cas checked his watch, flicking it like a douche. He turned and picked up his bench, setting it down and pulling his sleeves up. “We only have enough time to play through it once.”

The rest of the practice went comparatively bad. Neither side could keep in time, which had never been a problem before. They hadn’t really realized how much they had used the other to guide themselves.

Yet they refused to believe they couldn’t play this piece without the help of the other.

They refused to admit to themselves that they weren’t actually as mad as they were making it out to be.

It was pride that kept their eyes down. They left the auditorium both begrudgingly embarrassed.

_____

Dean slunk against his bedroom door. He slid to the ground with deliberate slowness, his chaffed fingers slipping into his hair. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes.

Sam had been asleep on the couch when Dean had gotten home, some talk show on the TV that looked way too intelligent for a kid his age.  Not saying that Sam wasn’t probably watching it and enjoying it because Sam was a nerd.

“Get your ass up, Sammy,” Dean had clicked the TV off and snatched the blanket from his grasp. Sam had groaned, attempting to turn over and go back to sleep. “No, dude, you got to sleep in your own bed. The couch sucks anyway, trust me.”

“Carry me?”

“Sorry, man. Not doing it. You gotta get up those stairs on your own.”

In hindsight, it probably would’ve just been easier to just carry the kid instead of following him up the stairs and kicking his ass to keep him moving, which took a solid five minutes to traverse the short flight of stairs. They’d skipped Sam brushing his teeth or changing into suitable pajamas for the sake of Dean’s sanity. Sam had simply crashed into his room and plopped heavily onto his bed. Dean had kinda felt bad for a second, so he went in and sorta got the blanket to be somewhat on top of him before he turned off the lights.

Which brought us back to this moment. Dean was physically tired, but his brain wouldn’t stop working. Despite the usual ease he had shutting down all thought and passing out as soon as his head hit the pillow, a mysterious disquiet that he was frantically trying to pin kept his head buzzing. It felt like anxiety, but it wasn’t a particularly bad feeling. It felt like excitement, but it wasn’t a particularly good feeling either; which, Dean reckoned, might account for the inability to shut it down. What kind of suppressant do you give to hyper neutrality? There was a negative to a positive and a positive to a negative, but zero was zero and you can’t turn off zero. And finding something to distract himself seemed to be too much work.

Exasperated, Dean picked himself off the floor and took his shirt off. He slipped out of his jeans and into his bed, trying his best to be extremely comfortable and unarguably sleepy.

He knew his problem, the one variant in the past day that was really bothering him and he simply couldn’t bring himself to agree with himself. That it would get him more upset than his dad randomly leaving again or Sam being so damn tired Dean’s pretty sure Sam won’t remember walking up those stairs to get to his bedroom; that instead of the real stress of the day, he was concerned about a piano performance… but no. It wasn’t the piano performance. It was the prick he was working with in the piano performance. Cas was being a fucking douche-wad and Dean had basically had it with his snooty ways. The guy had talent and lots more training, Dean would give him that, but he lacked all creativity and passion.

Dean suddenly took that back. Cas had passion and creativity; he played that stupid song when Dean was (always) late. He just refused to use it when he played anything formally. That made the whole situation worse in Dean’s eyes. Cas had an emotional cut-off from anything he saw as a tool. When Cas was playing listlessly, the piano was an instrument, as it should be, and he let his feelings roil through it. But as soon as he was being graded, the piano became nothing more than a means to an end, his playing became less thought and more strategic note placing. Dean really couldn’t think of a snottier way to play an instrument.

Getting frustrated over the accidental psyche-analysis Dean had conjured up about Cas was actually making that stubborn feeling begin to fade. His mind could just forget it if he covered it up enough with another entirely different thought process about the same subject. At the same time, thinking about the situation this way made Dean more aware of how human Cas was in spite of how mechanical he’d like you to believe he was. Cas in his stupid little ways.

Dean fell asleep, imagining what Cas would do if Dean explained to him what he figured out about him. If he pointed it out, maybe Cas could fix it. If he pointed it out, maybe Cas would like him.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sam really needed a haircut. His English teacher had already forced him to wear hairclips to keep his bangs out of his eyes. While Sam appreciated the thought, it was really fucking unnecessary and he really wished the guy would screw off because he was embarrassing him. He had to physically stop himself from constantly prodding at the clips, which weren’t extremely comfortable.

They got thirty minutes of class time to do homework. Except, no one actually did homework. It was a quiet – or semi-quiet – social time. A social time loved by all, all having their own reasons to love. Sam loved it because, in this class void of teens his age, a class lacking any companion he could talk to, this gave him a chance to get up and move away from the majority of the group and actually get work done.

Mostly void of teens his age, Sam corrected himself. There was this other kid, but, despite his getting into the AP English class, he acted like a ditzy thug. Sam was aware those adjectives were very close to being contradictory, but he was absolutely sure those were the words for him. Sam didn’t really hate the guy, but it got really old really fast with him. He had no filter. He repeated himself. He’d only recently mastered the art of whispering.

And he’d just slid into the desk nearest Sam.

“You should start calling me brother now; be ahead of the game.”

“Okay, what are you talking about?”

“I want to be the best man though. I, like, fucking call that shit.”

“Gabe, I really do not understand what you’re talking about, so I’m just going to get back to readin-“

“I’m talking about our obviously, obliviously, future-ly enamored brothers.”

“Oh my God.”

“No, but seriously-“

“No, but seriously. Gabe, ignoring everything else, they don’t even like each other.”

“Yes, exactly, they fucking loathe each other.” Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows like he thought Sam would just suddenly catch on. Sam looked up to the teacher’s desk to see that he was absorbed in his laptop then to the crowd of Juniors that were tittering in the other corner. God, he hoped no one was hearing this conversation. “I like your hair clippies, by the way. Very cute.”

“Don’t touch them.”

“I’m just fixing it.”

“No, now they’re falling out.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you jerked away. Let me fix them.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“See, there, now they look better.”

“Be quiet.”

“Sorry.” Sam sighed, wondering if it’d be a good idea to go back to the first topic. In spite of what anybody at school thought, he’d never actually encountered a fellow student that shared anywhere near his same… suspicions. He guessed that came with going to a high school on the Bible Belt.

“So… was that all you’re going to say about that?”

“What, the hair clippies?”

“No, our brothers.”

“Is there any more to say?”

“I guess… I just don’t understand where any of this is coming from.”

“Well, you know they had that piano practice last night, right?”

“Yes.”

“And so Cas gets home, right?”

“Sure.”

“And he’s like raving about how horribly embarrassed he was of his piano partner. Just absolutely up-in-arms about the guy. And, so, I ask, ‘Who’s your piano partner?’ and he shoots me a look like this. Yeah, and says ‘Dean Winchester’ and let me tell you right now, pipsqueak, I’ve never heard my bro say a name with so much hatred in my life.”

“And this leads you to believe they’re gonna get… married.”

“Obviously. And I get to be best man. I call it.” Sam wasn’t sure where to go from here. That explanation made exactly zero sense to him. Gabriel could see it in his pouty stupid eyebrows. Gabe, in a moment of sincerity, buckled himself down and folded his hands together. “You ever read Pride and Prejudice?”

“You are not comparing-“

“No, but hear me out. There’s a very thin line between love and hate. The same bodily reactions and theoretical descriptions could be used to describe my absolute hate towards grammar as my orgasmic love of pissing you off… Does that make sense? Mr. Darcy thought he was superior to Elizabeth because he was civilized and intelligent. She thought she was much better than him because she wasn’t a tight-ass on the upper echelon. In the end, they fuck. In most cases, I feel like any good, long lasting relationship should start in blinding hatred.”

Sam followed that better and was actually really surprised at how smart the thought was, seeing as it was coming from Gabe’s brain. He pursed his lips, the book he’d been trying to read settling closed on his hand.

“So the passion of hate just kinda shifts?”

“Yes. Exactly.” Gabriel’s face lost its momentary seriousness. “Love me; hate me. It’s the indifference that hurts.”

Gabe got up, hitting Sam on the shoulder before going back to his awkward seat just outside the crowd. Sam spaced out looking at his back, feeling a weird sort of melancholy that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was Gabe’s continuous pathetic attempts to edge himself into the AP English senior-students clique. Maybe it was he couldn’t sit anywhere else, seeing as Sam wouldn’t allow him to sit with him. Maybe it was that he’d finally gotten the hint that people couldn’t handle him in more than small bursts; maybe it was Gabe didn’t have anyone.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

        Dean could tell something was different even from outside the auditorium doors. Silence. Complete and utter. He hesitated a moment, checking the time on his phone – noting the text that was most probably from Sam, an update about his dad, no doubt – to make sure he wasn’t accidentally early or, heaven forbid, on time.

        He pushed the doors open, focusing more on the motion than on the scene that lay behind it.

        And Castiel was at the wrong piano. Dean stuttered in his walk down to the stage, having only realized this halfway down the aisle.

        It was an unacknowledged rule they had between them – or Dean had thought it was. They always took the same piano. Really, Dean didn’t see any reason to do any different. But still, there Cas was, straight-backed and uncomfortable looking, refusing to look Dean’s way as he climbed the stairs off to the side.

        Unfortunately, Dean took the stairs on the side of the stage to get to his usual piano - the one that Cas was currently, silently controlling - out of habit. Cas’ back was to him as he hesitated yet again. Half of him wanted to avoid the confrontation that Cas was obviously just trying to lure him into; and then the other half wanted to drop kick Cas off his bench just on principle.

        Just before Dean had come to make any decision, Cas turned half-way on the bench, straddling it and checking his watch in one fluid motion. His Chuck Taylor’s squeaked against the wood floors.

        “Late, again. I’d like to say I’m surprised, Dean.” Cas remarked, sounding more like Dean’s dad than a teenage boy. Dean’s fists clenched as he started for the other piano. Cas put his hands out, somewhat-but-not-really blocking Dean’s way. “No, wait! Hold on. Just- Guh, I thought we could run through measure ninety-six through one hundred se-“

        “I know what part I’m messing up on, Cas; let me get to the fucking piano.” Cas’ hands still didn’t move but Dean noticed an angry tremor in them. He wanted to smile but refrained.

       “No, I meant- I meant we should do it on the one piano.” Cas tossed his leg back over so that he was facing the piano. His fingers rested on the keys – the notes to Dean’s part. “I did your part last night and I think I know where you’re messing up.” His fingers shifted to the notes in his own piece.

        Dean was beyond indignant. He was furious. He loathed the idea of Cas staying up late and playing his fucking keys and thinking about all the places Dean was messing up. He was trying really hard to hide the aching in his head.

        Cas’ back turned to him, rage flaring in the pit of his stomach, he found himself at an impasse anyway. He really didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of the crowds of people that would be there for the performance; did it really matter if he looked like one in front of Cas as he explained his failings?

        In that moment, he decided yes. He wasn’t going to allow Cas the satisfaction of being able to openly insult him in the name of music.

        He huffed his way over to what he’d thought had been Cas’ piano, tucking himself into the seat and placing his hands in place before looking up with faux expectancy towards a visibly fuming Cas. With a rare intensity in his eyes, Cas’ fingers violently attacked the first measure, assuming a brusque quality that Dean didn’t fail to emulate. The piece, which was supposed to be “flow-y” in notation, became like a death march, notes standing alone in their respective heights, sneering at the ones below them.

        Dean smiled at Cas’ slightly reddened face, his slightly mussed hair, the tight line of his mouth. Until he got to measure ninety six. His eyes focused on the piano in front of him, trying to drown out the noise around him as his fingers rode on memory. The first measure went okay, the next about the same; but then he started slipping. His mind seized up on him like his fingers were threatening to do. For a brief moment, his eyes flicked up to see Cas’ near Cheshire smile. Cas’ eyes met his in the same moment, his mouth closing, turning the smile from one of unadulterated bliss into X-rated arrogance.

        Dean hit the measure after the last note of measure one hundred and seven with vigor, trying to force his piano louder and louder, attempting to drown out Cas completely. This, of course, was moronically impossible, but Cas sarcastically applauded Dean anyway. Dean had already lost this debate. Their notes were their words, their fists, and their supporters. There had been no way of Dean winning from the very beginning. This was a fixed fight. Dean was the inferior pianist and even he couldn’t argue that. The mere idea that Dean thought he had any right to openly embarrass Cas by ignoring his olive branch made Cas want to openly mock him, piano playing in the background or no.

        As soon as they finished, Cas, his eyes on Dean’s, started it again, playing it like he was supposed to. Dean followed suit, body languid as he followed the almost tangible slip of the music.  Their faces remained passive as they kept eye contact, knowing the part all too well.

        Dean was determined to do it this time. There was no way. There was just no way. He couldn’t mess up again. Castiel could not have the satisfaction of proving himself twice.

        Ninety-six came.

        And Cas started playing Dean’s part for him, the dual pianos filling the empty space with the same notes. Dean’s jaw dropped, Cas finally breaking eye contact, obviously trying to fight the smile that was still pulling the edges of his lips up.

        One hundred and seven.

        And Cas had played Dean’s part perfectly. He entered measure one-oh-eight with his own part, his face mock seriousness.

        Dean was sure he’d never hate anyone as much as he hated Cas at that moment.

        In contrast to the first part of the practice, the rest was heavily, purposefully uneventful. They played as they usually played and packed up without a word. Cas decided he wanted to exit on the side he usually did, walking past Dean as Dean made his way to his own usual side. The symbolism, Cas felt, was delicious. The moment they passed each other, eyes locking, their feet shifting so that they were semi-facing the other, Dean regretted his decision. Despite everything - really everything - a fondness in that moment caught him. He wanted to smile and charm. He wanted to sit back down and play some more.

        He didn’t want Cas to go.

        Cas decided to forgo the stairs, a decision Dean was sure had never even been an option to Cas before. He dropped off the stage, landing with just a mild stutter before tucking his hands into his pockets and making his way towards the door. Dean looked over the side. It wasn’t exactly a safe height. He took the stairs.

_____

        Dean didn’t remember the text until he was halfway home at an overgrown stop sign. The light of his phone was the only real source of light as the street light was out. The radio played some teeny-bopper thing that he’d forgotten to turn off.

        “uh so dad called and he wanted you to call him asap”

        Haha, shit. Dean didn’t reply. His phone was thrown hard into the seat next to him.

        He wasn’t really supposed to leave Sam “home alone” while dad was gone, which Dean found bitterly ironic. The last time Dean had left Sam on his own and his dad had walked in, Sam had all the lights on and was eating a bowl of cereal at 9 p.m., the TV playing some weird movie just a touch too loud. Dean had gotten an ear-full for it, his dad rambling on about responsibility and how Sam was too young to be on his own and maybe he shouldn’t put his extra-curricular’s above family. He passively agreed to all of this, promising to never let it happen again, saying he didn’t really like sports anyway.

        He, of course, went back to playing sports and having a job and leaving Sam much to himself while he struggled to juggle all of it. Sam didn’t seem to mind much. Dean did spend time with him; he loved the hell out of that kid. Sam was a reasonable guy… for the most part. A little more into the random shows of affection than Dean would ever admit to, but he didn’t slave anyone for it.

        Dean felt his thought process devolving as he realized he’d been sitting at that stop sign for too long. No matter how much he decided before-hand that he didn’t care, Dean hated it when his dad was upset with him. It was why he always just apologized and blindly agreed with him whenever he went on any of his rants. Later, he’d decide not to follow up on any of it, but in the moment, he could just imagine that he’d follow whatever his dad said and that that would make both of them happy.

        He sighed heavily, bouncing in his seat to try and let the anxiety out. He didn’t have to call him back until tomorrow. It was way too late now. Or, at least, that would be his excuse. He would get into just as much trouble calling then as he would calling now. Might as well save it for when he wasn’t so tired.

        Dean didn’t notice Gabe rolling out the window of his house and into his backyard, his shoes threatening to fly off his feet as untied shoe-laces glided through the air like dancer’s ribbon.

_____

        Gabe got home at the same time Cas did. He snuck in the back as Cas came in the front. His expression was much the same as when he came back from the practice a week ago. Castiel walked into the kitchen to meet a bored-looking Gabriel slouched on the table, the TV playing Robot Chicken. Cas grabbed the remote and switched it off.

        “Dad would kill you if he saw you watching that.”

        “That’s not true and you know it.” They both knew that it was only Cas who didn’t like Robot Chicken. He said it was the weird Claymation and grotesque subject matter. Gabe was pretty sure it was because they parodied Starbucks once. It changed Cas. He would never recover.

        Cas put the remote down so that Gabe could snatch it up and turn Robot Chicken back on. Cas sighed, turning so he didn’t have to glimpse that awful nightmare.

        “I’m going to bed.” He murmured, grabbing his book bag from the corner and trudging up the stairs. Gabe listened for the slamming of the door then popped up from his chair, damn near skipping to the phone and dialing as quick as his fingers could move.

        “Hello?”

        “Sorry I had to bail. You know how it is.”

        “Listen here you piece of horse-shit-“

        “Leeeet’s not be hasty with the potty-mouth name calling there, Sammy. How many minutes do you have on your cell phone right now?”

        “What kind of question is that?”

        “Well, I mean, I called your cell phone and I was just wondering-“

        “Oh my God, Gabe. Shut up. Just-“ There was static. “I got to go.”

        Gabe exhaled heavily, tossing the phone back onto the receiver. Whatever.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

        “This close to the performance, if you drop out now, you won’t be able to do a piece at all; and, in case it matters to you, neither could Dean.”

        Cas sighed inwardly, trying to look calm and professional in front of his instructor. He obviously couldn’t drop out then.

        “Do you need me to come to one of your practices?” Mr. Singer asked, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

        “No, I don’t think that’ll help.” Mr. Singer couldn’t help but hear the exasperation in Cas’ voice.

        “You know, I put you two together for a reason.” He replied, fidgeting with some papers in front of him before standing up and walking over to the piano. “Being your teacher aside: Castiel, as gifted as you are, you’re still a tight-ass. You’re going to have to deal with a lot of different people and you’re going to have to figure out a way to get over yourself.”

        The five-minute bell rang, quietly heard in the music room. Cas thanked Mr. Singer for his time, scooped his binders off the top of the piano and left, fighting against the frosh choir as they filtered in.

        In all honesty, Cas hadn’t really wanted a different partner to play piano with. He’d decided over the weekend, though, that Dean probably did. The problem being that Dean would be too proud to ask for a different person. Cas thought maybe he could just save him the trouble.

        Of course, he’d known that it was much too late to try and switch now, especially a song as long as the one he and Dean had picked out. He’d showed up early to school anyway to talk to Mr. Singer who was late anyway. Cas had been alone with his thoughts for a few minutes before he’d walked in, flipping through some music that was messily placed, some taped, to the head of the piano. Most of it was little ditties that the choirs had to sing or warm-up pieces that were dangerously simple and silly sounding. He found his own piece among the pencil-scribbled scores and a feeling washed over him that he would never be able to label. It was like reverse nostalgia. He felt stupid thinking about it.

        Five minutes wasn’t going to be enough to get to class in time. Cas was quickly jogging against the crowds that were on their way to their morning class. He got to his locker just as the last dregs of people dispersed to either side.

        He was the only one opening his locker. Someone walked out of the bathroom. Cas could hear Dean’s voice coming from the restroom for the short moment the door was open. Sam shook his head at him. Apparently it looked like Cas was going to walk in.

        Cas turned back to his lock, quickly twisting in his code. Sam adjusted the books on his hip, books that looked too big for his small frame, and started his way down the hall just as the bell rang. Cas shoved his binders into his locker and attempted to wedge his history textbook out before curiosity got the better of him.

        He sauntered casually over to the heavy bathroom door, pressing it open just enough to hear what Dean was saying.

        “I know. Dad, I’m late for class.” Pause. “Well, no, but they’re kinda important. No, I have a few more tardies left. Mhm, yes, sir.”

        Cas could hear Dean’s shoes squeaking as he hit them against the linoleum, like he was testing how far he could push them before the friction of the soles would stop him. He could hear the echo and the dripping in the sink. He could hear the little boy in Dean’s voice, could almost see the childish slouch, the guilty swinging head.

        “Dad-“ Cas almost let the door close. Dean’s voice had cracked, a single sob Cas wasn’t sure hadn’t been a forced laugh. “No, I’m sorry.” His voice was forcing itself back into normality. Cas wondered if Dean’s dad could still hear it over the phone. “I’m sorry. Yeah, I understand. All right, I’ll talk to you in a week then. Bye, dad.”

        Cas stood outside the door just long enough to hear Dean sniffle quietly, the faint echo of his sleeve running over his face, but Cas wasn’t stupid. He placed the door back into its place soundlessly then shot off down the hall, class supplies or no. He took the stairs two steps at a time before skidding into the bathroom on the second floor.

        Holy shit, that was embarrassing. Cas wasn’t sure what he’d expected to hear, but for some reason he hadn’t imagined something actually serious.

        Even then, he felt like a snot, poking his stupid nose into stuff he shouldn’t have.

        Cas checked the time on his watch. He really didn’t want to walk into class this late. If he went to the rest of his classes it’d be counted as a tardy and his dad wouldn’t be able to just write a note and have it excused. Cas scrubbed his face with his hands, leaning against the sink. A very small – very, very small – part of Cas wished he hadn’t ran. A very small part of him wished he could’ve stayed and tried to help Dean figure it out. Cas had always had a soft spot for sob stories. His pity was a little out of control. Cas kept replaying Dean’s broken voice, the sniffling into his sleeves. His fingers gripped the counter, not out of anger or sorrow; just so they had something to cling to.

        He decided he was just going to skip out today and ask his dad for a note tomorrow. He hadn’t really felt like going to class anyway.

        The next twenty minutes passed slowly, Cas wasting time by looking up random music on YouTube. He didn’t use his phone very much and didn’t have any games. While YouTube was semi-distracting, Cas was slowly disgusted to realize most of the music he was currently into was solo piano music. Not that there was anything wrong with listening to piano. It was just really hard to distract himself without words to grip onto. His thoughts would drift and he found himself imagining fantastical scenarios in his head, different outcomes to the previous situation than the one where he ended up listening to YouTube in a high school bathroom.

        When the bell trilled, echoing down the empty hallways, Cas waited for the sound of voices before slipping out the door. People bustled by, people of all different types and sizes; a flood of warm hues covered in sharp colors. Cas headed into any open space he could find, keeping his head down and angling his way around people that pushed their ways forward without hesitation.

        He found the mouth of the stairs during a pause in the undulation.

        On his way down the stairs directly opposite was Dean Winchester, face slightly red; but if Cas hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have assumed anything. He tried to look away but his eyes kept betraying him, flicking over as he tried his very best to move quickly down the stairs.

        Dean saw him looking. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Cas dropped his gaze, speeding down the stairs leading to the ground level. Cas cussed under his breath as his face went flush. He was really bad at lying and even worse at avoiding the near occasion of lying. His eyes alone were probably enough for Dean to realize something was wrong. He gripped the railing as he went.

        Dean didn’t come after him. He kept walking down the hall, disappearing into the sea of people. Cas was able to walk straight out into the brisk fall air, digging his hands into his pockets and pushing his shoulders as far up as they could go, without any disaster to speak of. He sighed a breath out his nose, speed-walking to his car.

        He wasn’t actually sure what he was going to do all day.

        As he sat in his car, the heat turned on medium as to heat him up but not too much, he realized he didn’t have much he could do.

        He settled back in his seat.

        It was only 9 a.m.

        This was going to be a long day.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sam wasn’t sure when his dad was supposed to get back. Actually, Sam didn’t even know where his dad even was. Sam didn’t ever know where his dad was. He didn’t know what his dad did for a living or how they could even afford the house they lived in. He thought about it a lot actually.

He never asked Dean about it though. Something told him Dean didn’t know for sure either. He was pretty sure, however, that Dean had noticed it just as much as he had. They lived in a decently sized house in a nicer part of town. They had really nice stuff. In fact, Sam was sure that the stuff in his dad’s study was some really expensive stuff. Again, he hadn’t talked to Dean about his suspicions. He wasn’t really supposed to be in the study at all.

That hadn’t stopped him from breaking in any time he could.

He’d always been curious of the mysterious room. He’d decided very early on that there was a connection between the study and his dad leaving. Some time, when Sam was in middle school and Dean had just gotten his new car (which he had been using along with the credit card his dad had left him to use when he was “off on work” to buy some basics at the nearby Price Chopper) Sam had stood in front of the heavy wooden door, puzzling over how he could get in.

And he was going to get in.

Sam was sitting in the study when Dean got back from Football practice currently. He heard the door open, Dean dumping all his football shit all over the entryway.

“Shit. Sammy! Don’t you have soccer practice, like, right now?” Sam had jumped up from the desk, bounding out the door and closing it quietly behind him. He locked it with the key he had made of the original. He slipped the key into his pocket as Dean climbed the stairs.

“Uh, no.” Sam said, Dean sauntering down the hall towards him. “I don’t have practice on Mondays.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Dean murmured, running his hand through his sweat-matted hair. His eyes rested on the study door for a second, then back at Sam. “What you been up to?”

“Just… in my room. I was on my way downstairs.” Sam gestured towards the steps. Dean’s eyes lingered on the study room.

“Yeah, okay.” It wasn’t really dismissive. It was just a response. Sam galloped down the stairs, leaving Dean to his thoughts. Sam heard Dean try the door, the twisting of the knob met with the deadbolt of the frame, and sigh, his hand hitting his thigh as he let it drop.

The study wasn’t anything pretty. There was a desk at the back of the room, windows behind it and bookcases full of books on either side. There was artwork and maps on the wall, some of which were inscribed with words that looked like they could be Cyrillic. He hadn’t figured out how to open any of the desk drawers, which had considerably better locks than the one used to lock the room. Sam couldn’t help but feel like the kingpin, sitting in the large leather chair, the mat on the desk supporting an old-time phone. He could almost smell the cigar smoke swirling around him, the faint bite of a shot in the back of his throat, the heavy lead of a gun in his hand; could almost imagine the loose flaxen-haired woman circling the circumference, finger tips trailing seductively across the book spines, her cigarette holder hanging heavily from her spindly, long-gloved hand.

To reiterate, it wasn’t anything pretty. Sam only kind of enjoyed hanging out in it.

And he continued not to talk to Dean about it, because he always convinced himself it wasn’t a big deal. Dean didn’t need to worry himself about it. Ignorance was bliss. Dean couldn’t get in trouble if he didn’t know; if dad didn’t know.

Sam made his way into the kitchen, a stolen key hot in his pocket.

_____

Cas didn’t fail to notice Dean’s truck when he pulled into the parking lot for practice. He sat in the warmth of his own car, hesitant to climb out into the bitter chill of the fall evening. Even in the failing light, though, he could see Dean’s vehicle. He parked it in the same spot every practice. Securing his jacket, he hopped out of his car, greeted by the white puff of his own breath. He walked past the empty windows of the truck, noticing how noisily full of stuff it was. It wasn’t exactly messy; just full of stuff.

Dean turned when the auditorium door opened. Cas stood beside the entrance, letting the door close slowly behind him. He found himself in much the same situation that he’d put Dean in last week; Dean was sitting at the wrong piano.

“You’re early,” Cas said, making his slow way towards the stage.

“Yeah,” Dean said, his fingers running down the length of the keys silently. Cas climbed the stairs, stopping next to Dean’s usual piano. “I was… I was wondering if you still wanted to, uh-“ Dean was gesturing in the general direction of the piano and the bench space next to him. If Cas hadn’t been sure the moment he’d walked in, Dean’s slightly flustered expression, an expression that was heavy in Cas’ stomach, was the confirmation.

It was obvious Dean wasn’t going to actually ask, or come close to even suggesting it out loud.

Dean wanted Cas’ help.

While a week ago Cas had been haughtily suggesting it himself, sure that he’d fix all of Dean’s problems (Okay, so the main reason had been wanting to shove it in Dean’s face that he’d mastered the part that Dean had yet to even shakily nail as revenge for the previous practice.); Dean asking him was… a different situation altogether. He felt like it was breaking the rules. Dean wasn’t supposed to ask him. Dean was supposed to be prideful and bull-headed. Dean was supposed to fail, and fail on his own.

And then Dean’s phone conversation with his dad came up hot on the back of Cas’ tongue. The pity he’d felt had been rising and receding over the past week. Cas wanted so badly to just tell Dean he’d heard, but he knew that would be a really, really bad idea. With that in mind, he wasn’t sure how to play ignorance now. There was obviously something wrong. Dean’s face portrayed that just as much as his current actions.

Yet Cas couldn’t bring himself to call Dean out on his bullshit now. An old thought process was splintering outwards with variously colorful responses that would’ve been already passed his mouth and all over the piano by now. But they weren’t. They were still brewing, briny in the sweat of his palms. It wasn’t the usual brewing though. He didn’t revel in it. There was no bite to him. He was sagging underneath them.

He didn’t want to say them anymore. He felt himself melting back into what he usually was, ducking through the halls, plopping in the seat in the front of the class nearest the teacher’s desk, avoiding eye contact and hoping the teacher would only call on him when absolutely necessary.

Unable to come up with a better option, in a moment of blind uncontrol, Cas walked over to Dean, who shifted over so he could sit down. Dean smiled at him briefly, a mite awkwardly.

And it was really awkward. Cas wasn’t sure if Dean remembered the last practice or if he was just ignoring it. Neither wanted to bring it up but both felt like they probably should.

Cas didn’t know where to start with the actual music; everything that he’d figured out, all the notes he had in his head, fighting to be said, fighting to be played at once. He cleared his throat a few times before settling on starting where he himself started.

“Well,” Cas began, letting the word hang for a moment before he continued. “First, I’d like to say that this particular part of your piece is actually extremely difficult, especially in comparison to the rest of it. And, uh, you probably already knew that.”

“No shit,” Dean said then straightened his back, “Just teach me how to play it.”

“Ummm… okay,” Cas let out a forced laugh. “I’m sorry, I got it now.” He pulled himself upright, much like Dean did. His lips parted slightly as he laid his fingers on the keys. “The issue I had playing it was that I was convinced that this measure-“ Cas played it softly. “Was in the same range as this measure-“ Cas played it also, moving his hand over slightly. “Of my section.”

“They’re not.” Dean confirmed, his fingers hovering over Cas’ for a second as he found the keys himself.

“Yes, actually, in this particular part, none of our keys overlap.” Cas said, then wavered for a second. “We could technically play it on the one piano.”

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” Dean grinned.

“But- just this part, though, so…”

“We should play it.”

“What?”

“Just this part. We should try it.”

“Uhm, okay.” Cas slid closer to the edge of the bench after failing to try and scoot it forward, which he really hoped Dean didn’t notice. Dean fit comfortably between the bench and the piano. It wasn’t until then that Cas realized how tall Dean was.

They watched each other as their fingers found their starting key on measure ninety-five.

One measure in and their hands were crossed, pulling each other closer as their fingers worked nimbly across the board. They stammered for a second, their fingers gliding over the other’s as their muscle memory guided their quick progression. Cas refused to let his eyes leave the instrument in front of him, Dean’s body just inside his peripheral vision.

Dean, however, glanced over at him, his tongue peaking between his lips. Dean took that moment to enjoy Cas’ hesitation in his playing, his nails as they graze his skin. Cas’ palms were dry and cold, which Dean found fitting. The piano in front of them held their reflections, the shadows on their eyes and the sharp mess of their hair.

And suddenly Dean’s hand was on top of Cas’, their fingers pressing into the piano in a discordant barrage of definitely the wrong notes.

“Shit.” Dean hissed, pulling his hand away.  “Fuck, I’ve been doing your measure this whole time.”

Cas hoped his face wasn’t as red as it was hot. His fingers were curled away from the ivory, suspended in the air as he tried to collect himself. Dean was committing the actual measure to memory, the one that Cas had played earlier to show him how he’d been messing up. Cas took a long breath, settling back onto the bench, watching Dean’s furrowed brow as his fingers shifted from key to key.

“Okay, let’s try it again,” Dean muttered, his embarrassment only just noticeable. Cas could hear the “fuck-shit-dammit” just under the surface. Dean didn’t assume the position, the slump he normally had while playing staying in the tensity of his shoulders.

This meant, however, that he was curled closer to Cas. He could smell his cologne, could feel the heat of his torso.

Their timing was off for the first measure, but leveled out at ninety-six. Both Dean and Cas dared closer than last time, their fingers finding the other’s more often, their bodies touching on more sides. They pretended not to notice. Cas’ eyes disregarded orders, wondering over to Dean’s as they closed into the part where Dean was supposed to mess up. Eyes locked, their fingers settled in the runs next to each other. Dean’s face lit up, a warm brilliance that was prominent on his slightly ruddy cheeks. Cas couldn’t help but return that smile, no matter how stupid he felt doing it-

“Dean. Winchester.”

A stern voice came from near the stage. A clamor of keys sounded off as both Cas and Dean startled, jumping up and stepping away from the bench. Cas leaned against the piano, searching the edge of the stage until his eyes rested on a middle-aged man. Dean stood straight on the other side of the instrument, his hands looking like they weren’t sure what to do.

“We’re leaving right now.”

This was obviously Dean’s dad; Cas could figure that much. His voice was quiet, almost calm. It would’ve been less scary if he had just yelled. He wasn’t looking at Cas, just kept hard eyes on Dean, who hesitated by the piano. He looked a lot like a child caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Cas went from staring at Dean’s dad to Dean, feeling like a stain on the wallpaper. He could feel himself melting into the color of the piano.

Cas caught Dean’s eye for only a moment before Dean started towards the stairs. Something small changed in his face, something Cas was sure was meant for him to see and him only; something Dean’s father wouldn’t notice.

Dean galloped down the stairs, his hands slipping into his pockets as Cas continued to stand stunned on the piano. His eyes left Dean’s back to peek at the man’s face. He still hadn’t looked at him. He stood at the stage for a moment longer, watching his son make his way to the door, before walking stiffly himself in slow pursuit.

Cas hadn’t realized how rigid he was until the door shut behind the Winchesters, leaving him alone. His body relaxed around him as he plopped onto the bench. In the same fluid motion, he laid back on it, breathing loudly out his mouth. He stayed like this for a good five minutes, letting his own breath be the only noise echoed back to him.

He checked his watch. There was supposed to be at least ten more minutes of practice. Sighing, Cas sat up, planning on leaving. But the piano keys beckoned and the auditorium called him.

He slid the bench forward, so that it fit him instead of Dean and began to play a familiar tune. A tune he hadn’t played in the auditorium for two straight weeks.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

They left the parking lot before his dad acknowledged him. Dean was buckled in tight, physically and mentally. He wasn’t sure what his emotions were as he waited for the backlash. He had been told specifically that he wasn’t supposed to go to the practice. His dad had forbid it directly.

Dean was buckled in, but he was still shaking. He felt light-headed, the same feeling you get when you cuss for the first time as a child and your parents dive to stop you. He was conscious of everything his dad did, everything he himself did. The only noise he could hear was his breath and heart beat and the rev of the 67’ Chevy Impala. Dean’s truck was still in the school parking lot. He assumed his dad was aware of it, but he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.

“So I got home,” His dad stated tightly, breaking the hard silence. His body was calm, but his face was definitely not. His driving was controlled. “And Sam was alone. Not only that but the kitchen and bathroom were a mess and there was some kid in the study.”

Dean’s mind reeled for a second.

“I am so sorry-“

“Don’t. Even start, Dean. I told you this was going to happen. You gave that boy way too much freedom and it got to his head. You should’ve been more responsible.”

“I didn’t know-“

“I asked something extremely simple of you and you couldn’t even do that. This whole piano thing was just a hobby, right? How could it possibly be more important to you than your own brother? I’m disappointed in you for being such a regular rebel teenager. I honestly thought you were more mature than that, but apparently I was wrong.”

“Dad-“

“I’m not finished.” His hands became vices on the steering wheel. “I don’t know what I walked in on, but I’m thinking there might be more to this hobby than just piano. Whoever that boy was, I don’t even want to hear about him again.”

Dean’s head hurt trying to play submissive. He kept biting his tongue, trying to defuse the situation, but the insinuation in his dad’s voice was pushing him. His fingers were beginning to hurt him, curled in on themselves, fingernails digging into his palm. Tears of frustration were pricking his eyes.

“His name is Castiel,” He muttered through gritted teeth.

“Excuse me?” His dad’s voice was scary soft. Dean didn’t want to respond. “This isn’t about you, Dean. Sam needs guidance that I can’t provide and I’m sorry.” It didn’t feel apologetic. “I work so you and your brother can continue to live in comfort.”

Dean’s frustration, his wavering control; adrenaline left over from Cas’ skin like a buzz just beneath the surface afforded him the courage to grit his teeth and let himself feel the hatred that he’d always told himself he didn’t have. He wanted so badly to love his dad. It was hard for him to admit it almost as much as it was to admit how much he hated him. But, in that brief moment, he couldn’t care less that he hadn’t really figured himself out; that he was a complete mess when it came to any emotion with him; that love was hate just as hate was love and that’s how he’d always seen it.

Dean Winchester talked back to his dad.

“Yeah? And what exactly is your work?” He spat, surprising himself with the venom in his voice. “What’s with all the secrets and the random extra money? What kind of ‘work’ requires you to be gone all the time with no explanation?”

“That’s not important.” His dad sounded angrily shocked, but he was on the defensive now and Dean could tell. “What’s important is that you and your brother are living normal teenage lives. This is how it has to be. I thought you understood that, but your recent behavior has suggested otherwise.”

“Recent behavior? ‘What’s important is that we lead normal teenage lives’? What a bunch of shit. I’m trying to lead a normal teenage life, but I can’t because you want me to be ‘guidance’ for my little brother. I have a normal teenage life when I’m disregarding your orders.”

“Yeah, because being found by your father wrapped around another guy is completely normal for any normal teenage boy.” His dad mocked. Dean wasn’t sure if it was a joke, but it hurt just as much. He could hear his jaw click as his teeth came together. His dad glanced over at him and his expression changed. “You couldn’t be normal if you tried.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Dean stated, his face tight as he fought back tears. His dad didn’t seem too phased by it.

“I don’t know how else to convince you that I know what’s best for you. You don’t need all this distraction. You’re putting all this pressure on yourself that you don’t need. And I know you think Sam’s able to take care of himself, but he’s not. No matter how smart Sam seems, he’s never been the responsible one; it’s always been you. So I’m asking you to be an adult and put other’s needs ahead of your-”

“Dad-“

“Don’t interrupt-“

“DAD, STO-“

The street light was out. They barreled, unseen, through an over-grown stop sign; unseen to the car coming the other way, a driver that didn’t have a stop sign. The headlights of the oncoming vehicle glinted off his dad’s profile as he turned to face him.

The sound of bent metal and breaking glass was the last thing Dean heard before he blacked out.

_____

Cas had spent a little longer than he’d thought he would in the auditorium. While the solitary silence of a passenger-less car was usually somewhat relaxing, Cas found it not distracting enough. He clicked on the radio.

“-treets Fourth and Main are blocked off for through traffic. If you’re going that way, I’d suggest finding a different route. And now, the weather.”

Cas turned the radio down, music coming through the speakers as he started the car and pulled out onto the street. He sighed outwardly, long and drawn out, and he rubbed the steering wheel.

While he’d been able to delay the on-coming analysis of the previous situation by drowning himself in piano music, whatever was on the radio didn’t interest him and he felt himself sinking into his own mind.

Something had broken, something had shifted and Cas didn’t particularly know if he was comfortable with it. The look Dean had given him was burned into his vision. The breath of Dean’s fingers hovering over his – the hard accidental push of his hand on top of his when he (tried to) hit the wrong keys – was still lingering on Cas’ skin. He stretched his hands against the steering wheel before turning onto the next street.

There was a distinct possibility that Castiel had no idea what was actually going through his head at that moment. During the practice, before the whole dad-walking-in thing, he hadn’t really let himself process the emotions he was feeling; they just kinda happened. Now they were crashing in on him and he couldn’t find it in himself to try and sort through it more than just letting the memory of it tingle against his skin.

He didn’t like to think about… relationships. The word came extremely slow to him. He liked to ignore it as much as possible. In fact, he was really tempted to drop the train of thought right now. But he trudged on; having decided before he’d moved that repression would no longer be an option for him. Instead of figuring out his current predicament with a certain pianist, Cas found himself reminiscing.

Actually, no, he wouldn’t really use the word reminisce, per se. That, in his mind, suggested he enjoyed the memories. He didn’t think about them with any sort of longing. He didn’t think about them much at all.

It really didn’t matter anymore. His dad had said that they were moving out and Cas had to make some decisions, most of which consisted of figuring out the best way to completely erase himself from any and all things. Social media was deleted, sports were dropped, grades were raised (detention was dropped); and then there was this epiphany moment. He’d been standing in his half-empty, boxed-up room, realizing he didn’t have anything to do the whole weekend, and everything just hit him at once. He was literally knocked onto his ass; onto the only seat left in his room: the fold-up bench that went with his keyboard. He’d wiped a shaking finger over the black and white plastic keys. They came back dusty. He hadn’t turned it on since his early middle school years.

He sobbed all over it like a fucking bitch.

It was simultaneously one of his lowest and highest points.

The repression stopped, the more “studious” Castiel Novak began – and he took up playing the piano again. Everything after that had basically been smooth sailing.

Snapping back to the moment, Cas saw siren-lights in his rearview mirror and he panicked for a second before he realized that they were approaching pretty quick. He pulled over, the other car up ahead of him doing the same. The ambulance flew past, sirens blaring. His eyes followed the back of it for a second before he switched his turn signal on. He saw headlights in his side mirror. A police car, silent and slow, ambled past. Cas frowned at it, it’s anonymous contents continuing down the street like an old woman drawing near to her fallen son’s long casket.

A shiver ran down his spine.

He didn’t leave the side of the road until the other car was long gone.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sam stood at the entrance of the bathroom, his front soaking wet, but overall pleased with his work. He had promised himself that both the bathroom and the kitchen would be spotless by the time Dean and his dad got home. It had taken him a lot longer to finish then he’d thought; but they’d taken longer to get home, so no harm done.

To say he was pissed about the whole debacle would be a complete understatement. He was pissed before his dad walked in. He was pissed when Gabe had shown up at his doorstep again.

And still Sam couldn’t hate him. Gabe didn’t understand boundaries; he mistook Sam’s kindness as the go-ahead to fuck things up. But it was immaturity and insecurity and an extreme narcissism that was supposed to cover up how self-hating, self-conscious he was. Sam had watched a lot of self-help talk shows and such. He knew about these things.

The scene had played out like a run of the mill, day-time television sit-com. His dad came into the house and Sam could hear him reacting to the mess leading up to the bathroom. He’d heard Gabe trying to act casual as he came down the stairs. At this point, Sam had gotten the courage to walk out of the kitchen, hoping his dad wouldn’t look. Of course, he did look, poking his head around the corner and seeing the mess that was in there too.

His dad unceremoniously dumped onto the porch Gabriel, who was shouting over his shoulder that it was okay, he could walk to his house and that he’d see Sam on Monday. Sam was covering his face with both of his hands, not sure if he was laughing or crying. Probably a little bit of both. His dad had turned around and scrubbed his face before grabbing his keys and walking back out the door, silent as sin. The doorframe had shaken as it received the door.

Groaning at the recollection, Sam grabbed the bucket of cleaning supplies, straining against its weight as he waddled down the stairs. The house echoed him. He dumped everything in the closet at the bottom landing. He shoved the door closed so nothing fell out then slumped against it. He checked his watch. Almost 11:30 p.m. Home alone again. It wasn’t anything like the movies. Despite how absolutely illogical it was, he didn’t like the big house at night. He could hear every noise, he could see every shadow and he could imagine the worst situations. He realized even now that all the lights in the house were on. It was part of the reason he’d been so thorough with the cleaning: he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about the empty house. He didn’t want to think about how scared he was. He was a freshman in high school. He shouldn’t be afraid of his own house.

His dad should be back with Dean literally any minute now. Sam got up from his spot on the floor and walked into the kitchen, which was sparkling clean. He grabbed an apple from the basket before making sure the curtains were closed all the way and turning on the mini TV to something loud and easy to watch. He decided reruns of The Nanny were probably his best bet.

Four episodes in and he was pacing the kitchen.

While before he’d argued that maybe they’d just stopped somewhere to talk instead of just coming straight home, Sam was starting to really doubt that his dad would want to stay out past one in the morning.

He checked his phone. Nothing. The opening theme of The Nanny was playing in the background as Sam considered his options. He had very few of them. He didn’t want to interrupt if his dad was yelling at his brother. He entertained the idea of calling Gabe to ask him if Castiel knew anything, but the thought of trying to navigate a conversation with Gabe right now was making him anxious. The little fucker probably wouldn’t give a straight answer even if he was given one.

The front door opened. He didn’t hear the jingle of keys. His stomach dropped. He walked into the living room at the same moment Dean did.

His shirt was covered in blood.

Sam stopped in his tracks. Dean looked down at his t-shirt like he’d forgotten he was wearing one. He pulled it off, before dropping onto the couch, curling against the back of it.

A woman walked in. She looked homely professional. She wore an expression Sam didn’t like.

“Are you Sam Winchester?” She asked and her voice was high pitched. Sam supposed she sounded kind, but his body was failing him. The sight of Dean’s shirt a bloodied mess on the floor jellied his legs but Dean was taking up most of the couch and Sam wasn’t thinking clearly.

“Uh, yuh- yes. Yes, Ma’am,” Sam was staggering to the side. The woman stepped forward, afraid he was going to faint. He didn’t move when she put a hand on his shoulder to balance him.

“Do you want to find a place to sit down?”

“No.”

“Let’s find a place to sit down.” She led him into the next room blindly, hoping to find a dinner table. She was not disappointed. Sam plopped at the head of the table and she grabbed the chair nearest.

“My name is Ms. Thompson, I’m a grief counselor at Regional Hospital. I was asked to speak to you.”

Sam didn’t respond. She folded her hands on the table, but stayed turned to him.

“You… Your brother and your father were driving home. There was a streetlight out, the stop sign was over-grown. They ran through it… The driver coming the other way had the right-of-way. It was an accident. Sam?” Her eyes tried to find Sam’s but she figured there was no easy way to do this. “Your father passed away at the hospital. There were too many complications. We were told by the doctors that it was relatively painless…”

Sam wasn’t really listening after that. The words were so foreign to him. They didn’t mean anything. She didn’t know what they meant when she said them. His father… like his dad? How did they get into a car crash? Those things happen all the time. They didn’t mean anything. Dean was okay. How could Dean be completely fine? Dean was in the other room. Dean’s shirt was bloody.

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder again.

“Sam, I need you to breathe into your hands. You’re hyperventilating. Breathe out. You need to breathe out.” Sam bent over, tucking his arms around himself.

“I’m- O-kay-” A sob wracked his body. Tears hadn’t come yet.

Sam wasn’t sure what happened after that. He vaguely remembered the woman trying to comfort him, then Dean shuffling into the room and silently taking over for her, curling Sam into his bare chest. Sam sobbed. Dean didn’t try to soothe him with words like the woman did. He didn’t talk about how okay everything was going to be or how lucky he was or how much his dad cared for him. Dean didn’t want to lie.

Dean made himself stop crying before Sam did.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

8.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dean kept checking his watch. He wished he’d consider how tired he was before accepting extra shifts at work, because, right now, he was about to fall over and he still had piano practice to look forward to.

He’d only been to one just yet, but it didn’t seem promising. Not promising in the way he would’ve liked it, anyway. He’d liked the way the song sounded on the tape; he’d like the first run-throughs on his own. He just wasn’t sure it was going to… come together correctly.

Dean wasn’t going to deny the excitement he had over meeting Castiel. He didn’t know basically anything about him. He was a complete unknown. And it had been exciting.

Walking in, it all changed very quickly. He had felt it as he passed over the threshold. No, this was not exciting. This was not what he thought it was going to be. He was irritated almost immediately and, he admitted, he found himself getting agitated over things he hadn’t even known bothered him. And then his playing was beyond shit and this bastard wasn’t exactly forgiving about it.

Not that Castiel actually said anything. He was definitely above talking to Dean. He just made faces; the most blank-expression faces. The only minute change it would ever take on was arrogant exasperation, like he was reasoning with a kid.

In hindsight, he probably got himself way too worked up about how cool Castiel was going to be. He’d had it in his head that they were going to work really well together; he’d already lived this fantasy where he finally found a teenage boy that he could be actual friends with. And then he walked in… and he could tell it was going to be yet another instance of hormonal dominance play. Just the same horn against horn, alpha-dog shit that he had to deal with the other 23 hours of the day. And it drained him. It drained him like it wasn’t supposed to. He was perpetuating his own problem. He didn’t want the macho-off, but he didn’t want subservience. He wanted someone to challenge him, but he was tired of trying to prove himself.

Dean had already complained about Castiel to his so-called boss, who was currently organizing b-rated movies by her own personal opinion of which ones were better. Or worse. B-rated movies were questionably the weirdest things about cinema – and the viewing audience in general, in Dean’s mind, anyway. She was just outside of talking range from where Dean was standing at the cash register, though she looked like she was almost done, having already placed all the movies on the shelf. She stood back for a moment, obviously warring with herself.

“I’m just not sure if you can even compare the bad musicals to the bad regular movies,” Charlie explained, her painted fingernails stroking her chin. “There’s a different kind of badness that goes with a crappy musical, you know?” She continued to hesitate. Then with a sigh, stated ‘I give up’ before grabbing the stool she’d been using to get to the top shelf and scooting it over to where Dean was. Dean checked his watch again.

“If you keep checking the time like that, it’ll stop working.”

“The time?”

“Yes, the time will stop working,” Charlie sat heavily on the stool. Early evening Hasting’s wasn’t exactly busy. The couple of people in the store were flipping through comic books or browsing the book section, neither of whom seemed to be too ready to pick something and leave. “Are you really that anxious to get to practice? What, is Cas hot?”

“Castiel,” Dean corrected.

“Holy shit, is he that hot?”

“Yeah. I mean, yeah. He’s… yeah.”

“Oh no, please, explain to the lesbian how hot this guy is.”

“Haha, no.”

“Come on. Let me hear it.”

“I really don’t want to.”

“I will make you organize the teen romance section, I swear to God.”

“Oh God,” Dean sighed, eyes flicking over to the customers. It looked like they were just going to read and not buy. “He’s, like- shit, I don’t know. He has really dark brown hair… like, it looked black at first. And… I actually don’t remember what color his eyes are? He’s athletic looking, but like that recently-un-athletic look, you know?”

“Actually, no. I don’t understand that,” Charlie pursed her lips. “You seriously don’t remember his eye color? I feel cheated.”

“Well, I’m sorry, I really don’t remember.”

Apparently Charlie believed him, because she let it drop.

“Does he kinda look like that guy?” Charlie tilted her head towards the door as it dinged open. He was on his cell phone.

“Actually, yeah. Actually, shit.” Dean tried to look like he wasn’t hiding his face.

“Oh my God, no way,” Charlie stage whispered, her hand gripping Dean’s bicep. “No way, no way.”

“Shut up, holy fuck,” Dean whispered just a bit quieter than Charlie. Castiel was talking softly into his phone as he walked straight towards the blockbusters, tucking his hand into his jacket pocket. Dean watched him go around the corner of the shelf before he turned to Charlie. “Please take over for this one purchase.”

“Are you kidding? No way. In fact,” Charlie jumped off her stool. “I’m going to ask our customer if he wants any help.”

Dean couldn’t get a word off before Charlie was skipping off towards the movie section, heels clicking on the linoleum. He spun around, thinking for a moment he could just pull her back, but it was obvious she’d thought of that because she was booking it. Dean swung for a second, breathing out his nose.

Dean actually didn’t want to hear what they were saying. He was trying to pretend it wasn’t happening or that it didn’t bother him. Why should it bother him? It didn’t bother him. The matter of the fact was that he was not bothered. He was so unbothered that he cleaned up a little bit because he suddenly noticed the random candy bar wrappers and such on the floor.

It was hard pretending he didn’t care because it felt like he cared by default by doing so.

Charlie stepped into Dean’s view, her eyes still presumably on Castiel, who was hidden behind shelves of colorful movie titles. She didn’t look like she was having a good time; she was making the same face she made when she talked to any customer. Dean was mildly surprised by that. She grabbed a disk, shoved it into his arms a little harder than she needed to and pointed towards Dean’s check-out lane. Castiel poked his head around the shelves.

Castiel’s eyes met Dean’s before he could look away. Dean didn’t register whether Castiel’s expression changed before he turned his head, but it was too late to look back - so he stared forward, his back just a little too straight. He tried to slump, but slumped too far and felt weird. He tried to position his hands to make it better but instead covered his face, his elbows resting on the partition thingy.

Dean’s was the only check-out lane open. He knew that Castiel was going to be forced to come to this lane and that they’d have to interact. He wanted this to be as painless as possible. Dean uncovered his face, pretending to check something on the cash register as Castiel put his single movie on the faux-marble surface.

It was probably the worst looking movie Dean had ever seen.

“Did you find everything okay?” Dean’s mouth worked on repetition; the words escaped him as easily as he scanned the DVD and punched in the numbers.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a membership with us?” Dean could see Charlie out of the corner of his eye. Her expression betrayed her amusement.

“No.”

“Do you want one?”

“No, thanks,”

Their first real conversation. Dean didn’t want to get sentimental, but he was sure he was going to remember these words for the rest of his life. He was trying to keep his head down, suddenly self-conscious of his stupid green polo. Money was exchanged for product, Dean’s fingers clumsier than usual when he tried to hand Castiel his change. The rustle of plastic bags covered up the surrounding uncomfortable silence.

“See you at practice, Cas,” It felt like the words had punched themselves out of his mouth. He’d fought not to say them; he’d tried his best not to say them. His brain had made the decision without him.

“Castiel.” Was all Cas said, correcting, before he plucked his bag of single good off the counter and stepped it quickly to the door. It shook closed as Charlie slid over to where Dean was, her hands folded behind her back.

“What a charmer, am I right?” She said, before noticing that the comic book girl had decided to make a large purchase, coming to the front with a precariously stacked pile of comics in her arms. Charlie stepped forward, guiding her to another check out, throwing Dean a look over her shoulder.

Dean was slightly stunned. Cas’ receipt was still dangling from the register. Dean grabbed it with a fist, crumpling it as he ripped it the rest of the way off. That friggin’ brat, oh my God.  He wadded the paper up, turning it into a tight ball before letting it drop into the trashcan unceremoniously. He felt like he needed something else to crumple. Maybe Cas’ face.

That was the moment Dean decided he would only call him Cas. Cas was now his name.

With a certain kind of elation, he felt something click into place with his decision. He checked his watch again, and noticed it’d stopped working. His brow furrowed.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i technically didn't update on friday because its 12am sorry about that but its a good one i think

9.

Cas didn’t like coffee. In fact, he was pretty sure it was some sick symbolic representation for life. Like, how it smells really good, and you’re thinking, man, I want some of whatever that is, but then you actually get a cup full and it tastes like dirt and cigarettes and makes your breath smell like rotten meat. He didn’t like the taste, he didn’t like the way it made him feel and he was pretty sure he didn’t look as cool drinking it as we would all like to believe. His face scrunched between hot sips, the black surface settling almost immediately upon table contact.

He didn’t like seeing his reflection either. He found himself taking sips more often just so he didn’t have to see himself. Some days were worse than others, but today was particularly bad. He found himself deliberately moving the cup so the coffee wouldn’t settle even between fevered, lip-burning drinks.

Ah, the pleasantry of Sunday morning coffee.

The house was quiet, the usual sound of early weekend days. Cas was pretty sure his older brother hadn’t gotten back until just a couple hours ago. Gabe wouldn’t wake up until he felt he needed to annoy someone. His dad was… his dad. He probably had another few hours of quiet.

To be honest, he normally didn’t get up this early either. He hadn’t planned on it.

Last night, he’d found out Dean’s dad had died. While he’d heard the police reports that there had been an accident, he hadn’t thought it was anything that affected him. And maybe that was the weird thing about it: it really didn’t affect him. It shouldn’t, anyway. He wasn’t sure what Dean was to him. It was hard explaining the relation he had to the accident in his mind at all. His piano partner’s dad. His almost friend’s dad. His ex-enemy’s dad.

Gabe was in the same kind of predicament. Cas had found out through him. He didn’t know how Gabe knew, only that he’d walked into his room at 11 p.m. last night, sat on his bed and began talking. Just absolutely spewing everything. He’d been to Sam’s house. He’d fucked up. He didn’t want anyone to know. He knew he wasn’t friends with Sam. He’d hesitated to say “anymore.” Cas hadn’t known how to comfort his brother and had hoped Gabe had understood.

Gabe had hung out in Cas’ room, a silent heap of tension, until almost 12 in the morning before he decided to shuffle off to bed.

It was weird. The whole thing felt distant. There was no sorrow to feel, no grief to overcome; just a somber sympathy. He ached to help in some way, but couldn’t even imagine what he could possibly do. There was still this underlying frustration between him and Dean; even after the last interrupted practice. The moment had been cut off before anything could’ve been bred from it.  But they’d found a middle ground; they’d equaled out. Cas had realized this sometime in the early morning when he’d been tossing and turning. There was nothing to one up, on either side. In the last practice, because of the move Dean had pulled, they’d found themselves at eye level. Nothing was distancing them but themselves.

But now there was this whole other issue. Dean going to practice had been an outright treason. His last act as son was to defy. Cas wished he’d taken better note of what’d happened as they left.  He’d already picked through what he could remember, but still moments escaped him to blind color and emotion. He hated himself for letting it destroy his evidence.

Cas hated himself because he’d normally find this - someone’s emotions and reactions on display in front of him to intellectually gawk at - to be exciting and fun. He’d bathe in it. It’s where his “pity” came from.

He hated himself because the more you got to know him, the more you realized you were right about him all along. And as much as he’d like to think he really did care, that he really did feel, he couldn’t convince himself.

He hated himself because Dean’s dad was fucking dead and all he could do was feel sorry for himself. He was staring into his coffee, his own dad, a dad he’d deny having, fast asleep upstairs. His breath tasted bad as he bit his tongue. He couldn’t feel it through the burns he’d accidentally given himself drinking too much at once.

The rest of the coffee was poured into the sink. Cas had felt just a touch bit too dramatic as the sound of the gurgling drain broke the silence of the foggy morning. He plopped himself down at the kitchen table.

Cas just hoped Dean was okay. He wished could know for sure. He wished he could be the reason he was.

He knew what he wanted. There was this rainbow path of happiness and what-should-be where he goes and finds Dean and he talks to him about it and they come to realize what this means, what they mean. Cas could imagine it. And, yet, it wasn’t the path that was going to happen. Cas was going to sit at that table and rot with indecision. Eventually, someone would make the choice for him and he’d just have to live with, and be directly affected by, it. He just couldn’t find himself doing what he felt anymore. There was this voice, dark and mean, in the back of his mind that tended to butt its head into long-term choices like these, especially since he’d royally fucked up the last ones. It wasn’t until he’d let himself collapse back into himself that he’d found the unsteady stability that he had now. Now that he was buried in his comfort zone, he didn’t know which way brought him back to day light and which drove him further into the ground.

He buried his face in the crooks of his elbows, tired, but completely unable to go back to sleep. The coffee alone would make sure of that, even if he wasn’t anxious. He fingers folded themselves in his hair.

In that moment, he decided not to think, to just let his mind wander where it wanted without reign. His mind was simultaneously blank and full of random thought processes, springing from seemingly nowhere, going about the same direction.

It didn’t bring him any comfort.

He felt lost.

_____

The cuffs of the black suit almost reached his fingertips. Extra fabric bunched at the bottom of the pant-legs, trying to tuck itself under Sam’s feet every time he moved. He wasn’t sure shoes were going to noticeably make up any of the difference. He scrunched his face, pushing his hair back. It stuck in place; he should probably take a shower.

The wake wasn’t until Tuesday, but he wasn’t sure there was time to properly adjust this suit. He would rather not wear his usual suit since it was so worn out. He’d had it since sixth grade; since he hadn’t grown out of it, and he didn’t really use it much, he hadn’t thought about getting a new one. But pulling it out of his closet today, he realized its condition and put it out of its misery. Dean had rummaged through the attic to find an old one of his, but…

It was way too big. Sam looked much younger than he really was.

“You look good, Sammy,” Dean said from the doorway, still in his pajamas. He came into the room and knelt in front of him. “It’s a little long, but we can fix that.” Dean was already rolling the sleeves up into themselves.

“Are we gonna have time to go to a tailor?”

“I dunno. Maybe we can pin it up?”

“You can’t pin up a suit, dude.”

“Well, we can pin up the pants, at least. The jacket isn’t that bad.”

“Make-shifting it. I like it.”

“I’m sorry, Sammy.”

Sam didn’t like that phrase anymore. He didn’t want to hear it again. He frowned inwardly, hoping it didn’t show through.

“The jacket isn’t that bad.” Sam confirmed out loud, trying to make a show of buttoning it up and checking himself out in the mirror. Dean smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. He got up from in front of Sam and stood next to him. Sam felt even smaller beside his considerably taller brother. He tried to find the confident teenager he’d thought he’d become but he couldn’t. In comparison, Dean looked aged, a forlorn look about his entire demeanor that Sam hadn’t realized had always been there, better hidden.

Without someone, without their dad… who they were, their relationship to each other, had become more visibly obvious. Sam refused to think on it too much, just observed what his mind forced him to. He attempted to bite back whatever emotion was bubbling up inside him as Dean left the room with the over-the-shoulder promise that they’d pin the pants later.

Sam couldn’t get the suit off before he was balled up on his bed, dry eyed.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

There was a real possibility that the auditorium would remain empty. Or mostly empty. The warm brilliance it used to have was chilled, showing Cas’ breath; the maroon color reminded him of congealed blood, the fluidity just the same becoming more solid, stale. The stage echoed his heavy foot-steps, hollow. While it may have echoed, it no longer spoke with the same wizened words or seducing tones. It felt more like it was shaking its head as it turned the sign on its twine string to “closed.”

It was Monday evening and the first not-on-Friday, we’re-really-close-to-the-concert practice Cas and Dean had agreed on at the beginning of their fraternization.

Cas made his way to his piano, prepared to spend the practice time alone with it and the vacant audience. He wished he hadn’t come as early but he’d thought he’d enjoy the cathedral heights and the vast plains like he usually did. Today, however, they didn’t have the same princely feeling. Instead, Cas felt like he was drowning in the open space, the air around him becoming toxic, with no way to break the atmospheric surface to breathe.

He carefully placed himself on the bench like he was afraid it was going to break. The keys in front of him seemed small. His fingers felt clumsy.

He tried to play.

The keyword being “tried.” The vast expanse mocked him with his own stupid notes. He was trying too hard, trying to force the music to become his life jacket. He made it lose its buoyancy under the weight of him. He paused in his playing for a second, a suddenly laziness coming over him, before he forced himself to keep going. His only thought was of procrastination.

It was stupid, but he was giving Dean time. There was a naïve, embarrassingly desperate part of him that hoped Dean would show up. He hadn’t specifically heard otherwise… but he knew better; or he should have.

He would like to say that he’d warred with himself but in truth he ignored it all that he could. It loomed over everything he did. It felt like a poor excuse for a cover-up. It especially fell flat in front of Gabe, whom he’d see in the halls. It taunted him with the absence of Dean.

“It” had taken on so many meanings throughout the day. Meanings he didn’t bother remembering, or acknowledging for that matter. He’d bit his tongue with the rumors, some of which he’d actually starred in. People he’d never associated with were glancing his way, adjusting their books, flicking their hair, wriggling their eye-brows. He’d hoped his expressions were somewhat neutral, or at least confused looking.

Everyone was suddenly suspicious of their activities. The whispers of a “faggot” relationship were swishing underneath the surface, like a serpent circling underneath mossy water. Boys were gladly explaining how they “totally saw this coming.” How Dean had been “acting weird” during football practice; how he’d stopped going to the parties; how he’d broke up with his girlfriend such a long time ago, they’d thought it was weird he didn’t just get a new one.

Cas was a still relatively unknown even though he’d technically been around for some time now. No one had questioned him. He was able to be left alone.

But now…

Now they were suddenly questioning who he was, where he came from; why was Castiel here?

Castiel dropped his hands from the keys mid-measure, letting the chords hang in the air like a worried question. His ears craved closure but his mind was done. He wiped his palms on his pants, trying to calm himself.

He didn’t want to deal with this alone.

He was tired of trying to deal with everything alone.

Fingers shakily found the ivory, the ebony. Slow deliberation worked to calm Castiel as he decidedly ignored the rising panic in the bitter taste at the back of his throat.

He begged for closure as the keys of that familiar tune sang out; the one he usually played before practice. While he’d been building on the irregularities of it, trying to find new ways to play old measures, he craved the simple tune of the core keys. He let the notes linger, his foot resting on the pedal wearily. He closed his eyes, knowing this piano, this song, so well; and with that, could concentrate on hearing and touching. The keys were silk beneath his fingers, the grab of the breaks in them were warm reminders.

It was the first cover he’d learned on the piano. It pulled emotions out of the back of his mind, feelings that no longer even had memories strung to them. It was a lump in the back of his throat, lightness in his footstep, boredom after stress.

It was a repository. An old friend.

He leaned in heavily, his head bobbing close to the hardwood in front of him. The echo was becoming increasingly muddled around him, like paint splashed on the ceiling that had procrastinated in dripping. The notes still rang long and Cas felt they sounded like sorrowed moans more than anything. But then, that might’ve just been the state of mind he was in.

Suddenly, it sounded like he’d hit the wrong note. His song ended abruptly, his hands pulling away as if he’d been shocked. His eyes remained closed as he listened to the note continue to shake the air, his foot refusing to leave the pedal.

Castiel opened his eyes, downcast at the piano in front of him. He could feel wetness on his face, but refused to wipe the tears. He was disappointed in himself, a shallow feeling that pulled his eyebrows together. He hadn’t thought he’d hit the wrong key. He was pretty sure he hadn’t.

His eyes were drawn upwards slowly.

Dean was sitting at the piano across from him.

He was still in his pajamas, shoeless, his bare feet pressing against the pedals. His hair was sticking up in greasy patches. It was obvious he hadn’t showered all weekend. He looked absolutely haggard. Cas’ expression changed and, from the way Dean was reacting to it, it probably looked a lot like the pity he was feeling.

Before Cas could even settle on the emotion he wanted to convey, the first notes of Dean’s part poured around them, drowning out the last of the dying notes of what Cas had been playing. He held them hard, impatient for Cas to start. Their eyes met for a second and Cas immediately regretted it, averted his gaze to the instrument in front of him and struggled to find his place. His fingers hit the right keys at sporadically random times; just as soon as he could push them down more than when they were supposed to be played. Dean didn’t wait. He continued without hesitation.

Dean played perfectly.

Cas somewhat played.

He was stumbling just behind Dean, the kind of metaphorical motion you associate with scattered papers and clattering footsteps up school hallway stairs. He could feel Dean’s empty judgment and he was embarrassed for himself. His pride was gone. He was stripped of it as he continued to fumble, mentally and literally.

The problem measures came and went and Dean played them with confidence. Bitter, sarcastic irony filtered through them in the fluid shifts and melodramatic flourishes. Cas looked up from his piano, hitting all the wrong notes as he did, to try to meet Dean’s eyes. They were closed, his eyelashes casting shadows on his freckled cheeks.

He continued to vie for Dean’s attention, wanting reassurance. Wanting anything. Wanting Dean to meet his gaze, silently tell him it was okay, to joke and challenge. Wanting Dean to act like himself. The whiplash of the moment was scattering his thoughts, filling him with groundless hope and directionless confusion.

Suddenly, the song was over. The last of it didn’t hang in the air long before Dean cut it down and threw it off the stage, getting up from his bench.

“I quit,” He said simply, walking backwards towards the stairs long enough to finally catch Cas’ eyes. His bare feet slapped against the wood as he turned his back on him.

“Wha- wait,” Cas said just as simply. He wanted inflection, he wanted passion, but it sounded more like something he’d say in response to a teacher. He tried again. “Wait, Dean. Please.”

“What? Please what?” Dean spun around, at the top of the stairs. “No, I quit. I’m not going to waste my life on something this unimportant. This was just a hobby, Cas.” Dean was going to just leave him there. He was turning to go back down the stairs again.

“Unimportant? You just played that part perfectly, Dean. You obviously practiced it.”

“Yeah, to prove I could do it perfectly,” His tone was mocking. “I’ve done that. I’m done. I quit.”

“Stop saying that.”

“I quit.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I think it’s hilarious.” Dean’s smile couldn’t fool even the most desperate person. His eyes were of anger and malice.

“No, you don’t.” It sounded more like denial than anything.

“Yes, I do, actually. I think it’s funny that a loser like you thinks otherwise.” Dean’s voice was full of venom, but most of it felt like it was already running through his own veins, already killing him. He walked forward, hoping to use his height and proximity to intimidate Cas. He was right in front of him before he continued. Cas’ voice caught in his throat.

“There’re still tears on your face,” Dean had edged closer to Cas, his face turned down to look at him. There was a tense moment as Dean’s pupils trembled. “It was kind of a shot in the dark showing up, but I figured you were probably pathetic enough to. Looks like I was right.”

“You arrogant, immature, over-sensitive bitch,” Cas damn-near growled. “You weren’t even at school. You show up here, stinking and barefoot in your fucking pajamas. And you think you can just pretend you came here, pride intact, to show how much you don’t care?”

“Yeah, I do. This-” Dean gestured to himself, leaning away from Cas for a second as he did so. “-is the exact definition of don’t care. I don’t need you to validate my pride.”

“You don’t have pride,” Castiel countered, his voice a flat-line of calm hatred. “You’re a fucking coward. You’re a boy trying to cover up his lack of father-figure with an over-abundance of self-confidence and egotism. Don’t you dare think you have any fucking thing over me, Dean.”

“Yeah, because it’s not like the same thing can’t be said about you,” Dean breathed. His voice betrayed his anger anyway. “A means to an end, am I right, Cas? I might be a coward, but I’d rather be a coward than a self-absorbed back-patter. You’re a goddamn mess. Everything you do is a fucking contradiction. Everything’s a test to see if someone’ll notice you. But give you any attention and you bristle like a fucking cat.”

“You’re so see-through, Dean!  The first sign of real trouble and you push the entire situation away and refuse to deal with it-“

“I’m thinking there’s probably a reason nobody even remembers you transferring.” Dean started before Cas had even finished. “Who are you, Castiel? Really? Where are your friends? Did everyone walk out? I don’t blame them. From the second I walked into this auditorium, your patched-up sense of self-worth and childish ‘passion’ made me realize I would never want to be a great piano player if it meant becoming a big headed piece of shit like Castiel Novak.”

The auditorium was blasted with a fuck-all of smashed keys. Dean was falling onto the piano, trying to use the keyboard as stability. Cas stood the new distance he’d pushed Dean for a moment, slightly shocked by his own violence, before he was on him, his hands wrapped in Dean’s slightly musky shirt, restraining him, roughly searching the fabric. With increasing heat, his body pressed up against Dean’s, their hips using only each other and the piano for support.

Before he could stop himself, he pushed his lips against Dean’s, tilting his face until they were flush. For a surprised moment, Dean’s hands pressed the piano keys again, shaking the air with ugly notes.

Dean reciprocated the kiss, his breath mixing with Cas’ as Cas’ hands slid from Dean’s shirt to his hair. The piano beneath them sang as their hurried movements accidentally executed their own discordant song. An urgency penetrated the air, caught in Dean’s hand as it drifted under Cas’ shirt. Cas moaned against Dean’s tongue.

The sound broke whatever spell they were under. Dean pushed Cas away, trying at aggression, but it ended being weak. Cas was the distance away he had been.

Their shock and embarrassment shone through the masks they were failing to wear. Cas sucked his lips into his teeth, hoping to calm their tremor and ignore the wet of Dean’s spit. Dean was trying so hard to be angry, trying to get back that solid confidence that he had had before, but it was gone. The silence dragged on as their eyes searched each other, their minds trying to reconcile what had just happened.

Cas was the first to look away, his gaze meeting something in the distance, out in the crowd. As if there weren’t empty seats and dark stairs, but an audience, waiting patiently for the next line.

“Your dad was an asshole. Sam doesn’t need your help as much as you’d like to believe.” Cas whispered, not trusting his voice to stay as even as he’d like. There was a long pause. Cas was still staring anywhere but Dean, eyes fixed on the far wall. “Please… don’t quit on me.”

Cas looked up to find Dean had already turned to leave. He descended the stairs, head bowed, back stiff. Castiel’s limbs became roots; his throat clogged with sap. He was alone in the auditorium, his only company the sound of the door slamming closed behind Dean’s retreating person.

_____

Sam was antsy, sitting, spaced out, on the living room couch. The only light on was the overhead light above him; every other room’s light was off.

And it was really quiet. The silence swallowed Sam, its enormity not being lost on him as he became smaller. He was rigid, trying to escape into his mind and let the time just fall away.

There was nothing to be afraid of. There was nothing in the dark of the room adjacent. There was nothing creeping slowly forward, its fingers leaving dark prints on the ultra-clean wood floors. There was nothing touching his leg.

The door opened suddenly. Sam tensed up so much it hurt his chest. Dean starting flicking on lights as Sam stood up.

“Don’t just sit around in the dark, dude, that’s weird.” Dean said, attempting to sound nonchalant. It really didn’t work. Dean kept his back to Sam.

“How was practice?”

“Good.” Dean said, brushing off the question as he wiggled out of his jacket. “How was your day?”

“Did you quit?” Sam asked instead of answering. Dean was making his way upstairs. Sam was following, waiting for his response.  They were in front of Dean’s bedroom before he got one.

“Yeah,” Dean murmured into the door before he opened it, stepping through. “Get some sleep, Sammy.”

The door was closed firmly in Sam’s face. He shifted his weight, slightly shocked. Only slightly, though.


	11. Chapter 11

Gabriel was beyond thrilled that he’d convinced Cas to take him to the wake. He wasn’t sure exactly how he got him to change his mind, but that didn’t matter. What really mattered was that Gabe… Gabe could show that he wasn’t always a major fuck-up and that he could be serious and mature. He was ready for it. He was looking so fine in his shirt and tie.

He was looking good.

Castiel looked like a fucking dork. Gabe couldn’t talk him out of wearing the big ugly sweater, but, hey, maybe Dean would dig that. Gabe didn’t know.

Which was another reason he was pretty damn pleased with himself. He’d been rooting for them since practice, like, three? Something like that. And now they were in the perfect position for man-angst. Oh, Gabe could dream of it now: them both sitting at a single piano, so close their hips touched. They’d play a song together; a really slow, tender one that would leave everyone in the funeral parlor in tears. Then they’d kiss through their emotions, their hands on each other’s faces.

Wow, Gabe was getting way ahead of himself, haha. He didn’t think about it often. At all.

They arrived in the midst of the visitation and found that the majority of the people were really not who they’d expected to show up. Many of them seemed like either pompous old money or confederate-flagged-truck-bald-eagle-on-my-upper-hairy-back-id-marry-my-cousin-if-she’d-fuck-me red necks.

They stood there for an inappropriate amount of time in front of the registry. Cas had the pen in his hand, poised to write, but he was physically, visibly stuttering. Gabe finally put his hand on Cas’, guiding it away from the book and back to the table so that it could relinquish the writing utensil and be at peace.

They awkwardly walked away from the table, hoping the guests behind them hadn’t see the whole exchange. They entered a room over to the right and found themselves in a pretty crowd.

Cas’ face flushed as the people dispersed enough for them to see the coffin. Apparently, they thought it best to have a closed casket funeral. Gabe had to respect that. A small part of him thanked the Lord that he didn’t have to see Father Winchester’s dead face. Like, he’d only seen him that one time and it was right before he’d died. Gabe was really bad at being serious in general, but if you added a real dead body to the mix-

Cas’ hand was suddenly guiding him to the side to let other people pass.

“Let’s just… sit over here.” He whispered. There was some weird song filtering around them, almost not reaching Gabe’s ears over the general mournful buzz of the grievers. They found some chairs in the far back corner, nearest the untouched buffet, and they plopped themselves there for a moment.

“Have you been to a wake before?” Gabe was proud of his mutual whisper. Ah, yes, finally, the practice pays off.

“No,” Cas admitted, pulling fuzzies off his sweater. His eyes moved slowly from his hard work with his sweater fuzzies to the actual crowd. Gabe wanted to antagonize him more, but Cas’ facial expression shifted. “Oh, Mr. Singer showed up. That’s nice.”

Gabe turned around, following Cas’ line of vision. He caught sight of Mr. Singer’s back as he pushed his way forward purposefully. He walked right to the front, to a teen in a suit. Gabe flicked his head back around to see Cas’ reaction. There didn’t seem to be much of one.

Dean was talking rather guardedly to Mr. Singer, his hands coming out of his pockets and crossing themselves over his chest as he listened. Mr. Singer held a manila envelope, his head bobbing as he said whatever it was he said. Dean straightened up, his hands falling gently to his sides.

People shifted into their line of vision. Cas made an annoyed noise.

When it was clear again, Mr. Singer was gone. However, Sam was now standing next to Dean, saying something to him and gesturing in their general direction. Dean’s face was pointed right at them.

Cas grabbed Gabriel’s sleeve, pulling him to his feet and making his bee-lined way to the exit. This was more difficult than he thought, seeing as most of the more pompous wake-goers were now standing right at the entrance with little glasses of water. Cas’ eyes were obviously being pulled towards Dean; even in the confusion of apologizing for accidentally bumping into a woman and making her spill her water on her dress, this was clear. Gabe dared to look and saw that Dean was coming toward them.

Panic, real panic, was settling into his bones. Ah, jeez, they were fucking screwed. Gabe didn’t even know what Cas did and he knew they were fucking fucked side-ways. Or that seemed to be the general feeling he got off Cas, anyway. Cas was trying to placate the woman, but she seemed the type to be usually irritating.

“Is there a problem?” Dean’s voice was strange to hear all of a sudden. Cas covered his face with his hands for a second before realizing that was a pretty fucking dorky thing to do. Gabe felt really bad for him. Sam was off to the side, ignoring the whole thing apparently. Gabe was kind of glad of it.

“Well, I have water all down my front,” She said back, her volume at an acceptable level, but still a mite too loud for a fucking funeral home. It wasn’t until after she’d said it that it looked like she realized that it was Dean the-fucking-orphan Winchester of whom she was talking to. Her eyes filled with sudden regret.

“There are napkins this way,” Dean replied in a nice-enough tone, ushering her towards the buffet table. Gabe watched his brother and Dean basically eye-fuck, like, right in front of everybody. Cas was still recovering from the trauma of the moment, his face a dark red color. Dean was clearly dashing in his suit and tie, his hair styled casually. The only adjective that came to Gabe’s mind at that moment was smoldering.

Gabe looked over to see Sam was staring at his brother as well. It felt like a strong moment for them. Until they caught eyes and it looked like Sam had recently gotten hit by a train.

Then it felt like it was mighty time they got a move on. The crowd was moving quickly now, Dean’s presence suddenly kicking up the dust. Gabe started walking towards the door, hoping that Cas would just follow him.

It wasn’t until he got into the car that he realized Cas had, in fact, not followed him. Gabe regretted not wearing something warmer as he realized he didn’t have the keys. Thankfully the vehicle was unlocked, but it was going to remain chilly. He tucked his hands into his armpits, staring out the windshield, which was pointing away from the building to a residential street. The houses were all warm looking. So warm looking. Warm and comfortable. Gabe shivered.

He really hadn’t thought any of this through, he reluctantly admitted. Coming was the biggest mistake, though, oh my God. He wanted to just leave and pretend none of it had happened. He was seriously fighting the urge to drop the whole Sam thing all together. He really wanted to. He normally would.

Gabe realized he could see the front door of the funeral home from the side-view mirror. He glared at it, willing Cas to come forth.

He couldn’t even turn on the radio. It was silent, save the few cars that ambled by and the sound of his own annoyance. He checked his phone, eyes leaving the mirror to see that it was half-past 6. He was really regretting not grabbing something from that buffet. He wondered for a moment if it would be too awkward to just walk back in and grab some food?

His eyes fell back on the mirror to see Cas charging out the door, followed by an anxious looking Dean. Cas looked embarrassed more than anything. Dean caught up to him, his hand pulling his shoulder. Cas turned around, putting his hands up in an almost apologetic-looking move.  His nervous flitting was obvious, even from where Gabe was sitting. Dean’s mouth moved, but Gabe couldn’t read lips. He frowned at how unprepared he was. Cas’ movements became more irritated the next he talked. Dean swung his head to the side, his mouth forming a hard line. When he spoke, he looked mildly frustrated, an exasperated sigh preceding what he had to say.

Cas turned to leave again. Dean’s hand caught his elbow. Cas didn’t try to pull away, but he was still facing the car. Dean’s words were quick to come off his lips, and then he stuttered. His lip caught between his teeth as he bit off in the middle of the sentence. Cas’ face was dark, his eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle. Dean let his hand drop, tucking it into his pocket along with his other one. Cas stood there for a second before stalking forward.

Gabe tried to look like he was about to die of boredom so as to not alert Cas of his seeing the whole thing. No one could ever know.

Cas climbed into the car, the car keys jingling as he shoved them into the ignition. He mumbled some apology that Gabe didn’t care about.

As they jerkily pulled out of the parking lot, Gabe watched a dead-pan Dean shuffle back into the building.


	12. Chapter 12

Cas had, in fact, not told Mr. Singer that Dean had dropped out. On the contrary, he reassured him of the opposite. The words had just slipped out of his mouth. ‘Why, yes, Dean is still going to do the concert.’

After what had happened at the wake, Cas couldn’t be sure Dean had really dropped out anyway. Cas could say that he’d been confused, that he really thought Dean was going to be in the concert. Plus, the fact that Mr. Singer didn’t already know seemed to support the fact. He’d been at the wake. He could’ve asked Dean.

Cas didn’t really question why Mr. Singer asked.

In reality, the real reason he didn’t seemed to be pure embarrassment.

And embarrassment seemed to be his constant state at this point.

Since the wake and subsequent funeral, the rumors had only worsened in their intensity. The LGBTA+ club, a club that was highly controversial amongst the mostly Baptist students, had started digging their claws into it, trying to make a point out of a bad situation. This, however, didn’t make any of it better because it merely confirmed everyone’s suspicions, even after the LGBTA+ completely redacted all their comments and publicly uninvited Castiel to join them. It was probably one of the worst experiences of Cas’ life.

He knew they meant well and, you know, at least they were trying. But it was getting to the point where it was impossible for him not to hear the full brunt of the rumor mill.

As he walked down the hall, heading against the flow of people to the bathroom to eat his lunch, he wondered how long rumors like these usually lasted before everyone got tired of them. He supposed they’d die off quicker if there wasn’t anything to back them up. Of course, it wasn’t like they weren’t making stuff up anyway. Cas conjured they probably hadn’t had any good gossip in a while, seeing how badly they were handling it now.

He sighed as he put the seat of the toilet down with his foot and slumped on top of it, his brown-paper bag crinkling as he unrolled the top.

The worst part about the rumors, though, was that some of them were true.

Cas wasn’t sure how he felt about kissing Dean. When he’d gotten home afterwards - when he was lying on his bed on top of the blankets, his shoes still on - he realized he really wanted to do it again. And again and again. The thought tore his mind apart, fraying the edges and making it hard to breathe. The crooks of his arms ached; his fingers itched. His lips felt oddly naked. He’d fallen asleep like that, willing his body to forget.

Except, he hadn’t forgotten. He would like to convince himself otherwise, but it was the main reason he went to the wake. Some sick part of him thought, maybe… maybe his fingers could find Dean’s hips again and he could either convince Dean to do the concert or convince himself he didn’t need to. Maybe he could persuade Dean into changing both their minds. Maybe his lips wouldn’t feel so bare.

He bit into a ham and cheese sandwich, the sound of the brown paper bag echoing in the bathroom. With some bitterness, on the first day he’d decided to eat in the bathroom, he’d accidently walked into the one that he’d hung out in after the cell phone incident. Then, he couldn’t get himself to go to any other bathroom.

Humans are creatures of habit after all.

Cas paused mid-chew. He had Dean’s cell phone number in his contacts on his phone – which was probably dead somewhere in the bottom of his book bag. They’d traded phone numbers weeks ago; it’d seemed useful at the time. Cas couldn’t ever bring himself to use it and, apparently, neither could Dean. He really couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about it.

He shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and decided he didn’t want to eat the Doritos he had. Mouth full of mostly bread, he tried to figure out what to do with this newly remembered information. He could text him. It would be really nonchalant, really casual. ‘so, im getting mixed signals. r u doing the concert?’ ‘so, im getting mixed signals. r we cool?’ ‘so, im getting mixed signals. we gonna fuck or what?’

Cas wished he was blushing, but he really wasn’t. There was no hot flash of embarrassment. He really wished he could just ask and get a straight up answer. He felt like they’d been going back and forth for a while, even though they’d only just recently hate-kissed.

In the end, he concluded he would do nothing. He flushed the toilet out of habit and slunk out of the restroom just as the five minute bell sounded.

_____

Sam had been pretty persistent in his want to get back to school as quickly as possible. He’d reassured Dean that it was fine, everything was fine; he just wanted to get back into the grind and… he just wanted to get back into the grind.

Sam was at school.

He just couldn’t seem to get himself actually in the school.

He was more or less camping outside with his bookbag in his lap, legs crossed around it. He was sure a few teachers had already seen him, but he couldn’t bring himself to really care and, apparently, neither could they. The grass around him was dying as the autumn chill became the regular temperature of the dirt. A breeze cut through Sam’s clothes. The sun was the only warmth that highlighted the overall white theme of the scene.

Time passed slowly, but it didn’t drag. He’d gotten used to the slow drip of it. Going into the school wasn’t really something that crossed his mind while he shivered in the morning cold, waiting patiently for the afternoon sun.

Sam thought about his mom. He hadn’t really known her. But with both his mom and his dad gone, he started wondering more about her. He didn’t even know what she sounded like. He was pretty sure they had video tapes of her somewhere, but he’d never seen them.

It was just another one of those things, he guessed.

There seemed to be a lot of “those things” lately. Part of the reason he wanted to get back to school was because of “those things.” It’d occurred to him that they were orphan minors; that Dean wouldn’t be able to just take custody of him since he was not yet 18 years old. He didn’t ask about it, though, because he was afraid of the answer. He kept overhearing bits and pieces of conversations that he didn’t want to. Hence, the not wanting to stay home.

Dean just dropped him off, barely noticing that Sam wasn’t exactly making his way quickly to the open doors to the halls, and drove off. It gave Dean a few hours to have the conversations he needed to have while Sam sat on the grass and tried not to give in to the panic attacks that liked to creep up on him now.

Sam ate lunch.

Sam waited some more, vaguely aware of the bells that echoed through the school. Also aware of the windows facing him, of the students that were obviously staring at him instead of at their teachers. He knew his presence was probably exacerbating whatever rumors were floating around. He was their daily reminder that the Winchesters were still out there. As was Castiel.

Sam had to admit: the worst part was when Cas and Gabe walked past him on their way inside. Cas would keep his eyes down for the most part, but Gabe would not. It always felt like Gabe was one breath away from trying to talk to him, even across the lawn like they were. He couldn’t imagine what he’d want to say.

But Cas. Sam knew about Cas. Everyone knew about Cas. Things were starting to really fall apart for him and it was becoming obvious. Sam tried to talk to Dean about it once; tried to bring up the Wake and the funeral and the rumors. Dean didn’t really have a good poker face but he tried to wear one anyway. Sam was a mite better at his and was able to fake semi-ignorance. Sam couldn’t get a single thing out of him, though, no matter how much he prodded. He’d finally given up when Dean snapped at him before sending him to his room like a proper guardian.

The final bell rang. The whole day would feel like a few, un-well-formed sentences. The other students would leave, allowing a bubble of space around him, knowing he’d been sitting there for hours. He avoided eye-contact with Gabe, the same song and dance as the morning. He was always a breath away from something. Always a breath away.

Everyone would be long gone before Dean would remember to pick Sam up from school.

_____

Dean worked by the light of his tablet, his headphones plugged into his keyboard. A Youtube video served as his sheet music. His fingers switched from tapping pause to pressing keys to rewinding the video to pressing the right keys to pausing the video again.

He checked the time on his phone, half expecting a message but knowing there wasn’t one. It was getting pretty late. Again. He pulled his headphones off to hear Sam’s radio going in the room across from his. He was probably asleep by now. Dean yawned, standing up and stretching his back, which responded with God-awful cracking sounds. The bench wasn’t exactly the most comfortable seat in the house and he’d been sitting in it for… geez, like, six, seven hours? The glow of the tablet dimmed as it went on stand-by.

Dean checked his phone again. He bit his lip.

He stood still in the middle of his room, letting the awkward sound of the radio surround him. It was just quiet enough to be unintelligible. Dean took a step towards his bedroom door, planning on sneaking into Sam’s room to turn it off, but somehow found himself falling onto his bed, thankful that he’d stayed in his pajamas all day.

His blinking eyes caught sight of the folded document on his end table, edging its way out of a manila envelope. Dean buried his face in his pillow, forcing his shoulders to relax.

Problems were for tomorrow. There was nothing he could do now. It was late. He should sleep. He tried to move his hand and realized there was a cell phone still in it. He checked the time. He checked the messages. He checked the time. He threw it somewhere off the side of his bed, reburying his face.

The voice was abruptly shut off from the room over. Dean’s ears pricked, hearing the scuttle of Sam’s feet then the metal spring sound of his brother’s bed.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fuck i forgot to update. really sorry everyone. im the fucking laziest person in the universe.

13.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

Catholic Church bells attempted to ring timidly, afraid to alert people of their presence, of breaking the cool morning air; the sound refused to touch the houses around the church. A procession of strangers bob into a church, all dressed in dark colors that contrasted with their dawn pale skin. Most held unused handkerchiefs, eyes darting around to see if anyone was crying yet, sight resting on the only one that seemed to be actually torn up by the whole situation, trying not to notice the one who was pretending it was no big deal.

The casket was held up by seemingly spindly wheels that squeaked against the hall’s carpet. The priest stood, a small red book in his hands and two servers robed in white; one held a tall, golden crucifix, the other held the thurible, a small round golden censer on a thin metal chain that swung lazily from side to side, reminding all of a holy mace. The dim light of the coal could be seen; the actual incense itself was in the server’s other hand, contained in hand-sized decorative boat.

Father made a movement with his hand, swiveling on his heel and letting the servers go forward before following himself, the casket directly behind him. Dean and Sam stood on either side of it, a few other men helping guide it towards the doors to the main room of the church.

Cathedral windows and the placid waters of a Baptismal font greeted them. Rows of pews, wooden and worn, lined the way down the length of the church, up to an altar; above which a considerably sized crucifix hung, whispering of torture, of death. Dust reflected red morning light. The censer continued to swing, smokeless at the moment, at the server’s ankles. The cross held in the other server’s hands tilted slightly back and forth with his gait.

Dean hadn’t been to church in a really long time. The last he could remember, he was falling asleep on his mom’s lap during the Easter Vigil, somewhere between the third and fourth reading. Now, his hand was resting on his dad’s casket, numb to what it really was.

People were already in the church. Some of them just looked like more old women, old women who believed in prayer, their heads still covered out of old tradition. They turned to watch, like a morbid parody of a wedding. The dead man looked gorgeous today in his once in a lifetime outfit: the wood of his coffin.

A young face turned towards Dean. It was of empathetic melancholy, his hair brushed too straight above another sweater. Dean locked eyes with him, trying to exude a general okay-ness. Cas’ eyes, instead, got sadder, wetter looking. Dean looked away, averting his gaze to his already – quietly – crying brother.

The small crowd, the supposed close family and friends, shuffled into the pews at the front, leaving the casket to brave the end of the aisle without them. Dean, Sam and yet the same other men whom they wouldn’t feel the need to remember the names of, remained on either side of it. The priest and servers bowed to the altar. The server with the cross took it to its holder and went to his seat to the side.

The priest took the thurible from the other server, handing it off for the prayer book and scooping the flakes of incense onto the slow burning charcoal. He swung it heavily upward towards the casket, a slow ark of sweet smelling smoke showing where it went. The church filled with its scent quickly.

Father gave the thurible back to the server, who gratefully returned it to its holder, reclaiming the red prayer book. He pulled on the purple ribbon that marked his place, his long fingers holding it open with one hand while the other out-stretched.

Dean didn’t really hear what he had to say. It seemed to be all the cliché garble you hear ever. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and all that bullshit.

Because you don’t dust off when you die. You rot.

His dad would rot. His dad was rotting.

Dean could feel his chest expand, filling with a void that seemed to be all around him. He felt small. He couldn’t look away from his feet. He didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to see the tears on Sam’s face; he didn’t want to see the deathly still furniture that held his father. He could feel Cas’ eyes boring into the side of his face.

He didn’t want Cas to be there. He failed to wonder why. He failed to care.

Dean turned exactly when he needed to, curtly marching to his designated pew. Anger was easy to have. It was blind and misdirected and desperate. And painless. Absolutely painless. Frustration, on the other hand, was corrosive and heavy; leaden bells dragging behind him, creating trenches in the floor that caught his feet when he tried to turn back. Dean’s mouth tasted cold and sick. His eyes were as dry as his palms were.

He wanted to take it all back. He wished he’d been joking, he wished he’d been serious; he wished he’d listened, he wished he’d stopped. He wished he could make Cas understand why he needed to be angry and frustrated. He wished he could convince himself.

Dean was tired.

This was years – years – in the making. He’d realized he’d been dragging those bells for a while; the same bells had kept his head from turning since the fifth grade, the same bells had driven him to impulsively throw himself into any random situation that presented itself as something normal to do, the same bells had held his tongue every time he’d walked past the study or stammered to explain his dad’s occupation or made up an excuse to cover his dad’s ass or answered as Sam’s guardian.

It’d always just been him and Sam. His dad had been more present, more a part of the family when he was an active alcoholic and that had been a long time ago. Dean felt selfish for thinking it, but the secrets and the frustration had begun when his dad had sobered up. He’d gotten this resolve, this mission. He kept leaving; kept putting Dean in charge, kept promising, kept lavishing them with gifts.

Sam slumped his head onto Dean’s shoulder, his hands folded in his lap. Dean couldn’t bring himself to comfort him.

Dean sat in the pew for the rest of the mass, unmoving, Sam on his shoulder. The priest’s eyebrows were in a worried arch; those seated around them seemed genuinely confused about whether they should follow the priest or Dean, some deciding to stay seated with sweat on their brow and missals in their moist palms. The older women received communion with knitted hands. Mass ended hesitantly.

As they paraded down the aisle again, Dean caught Cas’ attention.

Cas decided not to go to the burial.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

_____

“I’ll be upstairs.” Cas announced to no one in particular.

He walked to his bedroom, kicking his shoes off. He ran his hand through his hair a couple times, his other hand twisting the knob and letting the door swing open. He pulled his sweater off and started unbuttoning his shirt, stepping agitatedly towards his bed.

The door closed behind him. He spun around, his shirt halfway open.

He was pushed onto the bed, someone’s lips finding his that were too familiar for how long, how many times, he’d known them. Hands were pressed against his bare chest, sliding downward, unbuttoning as they went. His lips left Cas’ to place open-mouthed kisses along his jaw line, down the length of his neck. Cas arched into him as his tongue found his collarbone and his hand found the edge of Cas’ boxers. Cas’ fingers carded through his hair, his eyes falling closed.

His fly came undone with a twist of the wrist. Cas’ mouth opened, planning on making noise, but was interrupted by lips, a tongue. The sound was caught on spit and flesh. He hooked his fingers into pant loops, pulling the other’s hips onto his, enjoying the heavy weight of another body on top of his. Their mouths pushed and pulled, moans escaping them.

Cas pulled him around, rolling so that he was on top, straddling his hips. The other’s hand was quick to pull at his jeans.

“Dean-“  The name escaped him broken and high-pitched-

Cas awoke with a start, his head popping off his pillow. His head whipped to the side, checking his bed, his hand touching the duvet next to him. Empty. He took a few deep breaths, searching the room as the reality of the matter hit him. It had only been a dream.

His hand went to his forehead and came back covered in sweat. He threw the covers off.

“Shit. Shit shit shit. Fuck.” He felt like a prepubescent teen again, hardly keeping his boners in check. He tumbled out of bed and stumbled over to his book bag, dumping out the contents in a barely controlled fit of lust. He pushed his books around until his phone appeared. He gripped it tight, carrying it over to his desk to plug it into the charger, before plopping into his desk chair.

His hands were woven in his hair as he attempted to calm himself down. He wasn’t sure what he was doing. It felt like he was still dreaming. The battery loading screen created a circle of light on his desk. It made a boot-up noise that was way too loud for- Damn, was it 3 in the morning? Cas was afraid to pick the phone up, afraid of what his mind was begging him to do. Dean’s cell phone number-

The phone vibrated, alerting Cas of a missed text.

Castiel almost missed it. He almost turned the phone back off, almost crawled back to the bed, almost let his hands do what they wanted – fuck the police. His finger, instead, hovered over the power button.

“im still doing the concert.” Said the message when Cas finally got the courage to read it.

Cas leaned dangerously far back in his desk chair. He was way too tired and horny for this. The letters were dancing in front of him, the light of the phone too bright for the dark room. He went into the settings to turn it down.

He had hoped that by the time he turned the backlight down, that he’d’ve thought of how he was going to reply. This was not the case. The keyboard mocked him, the letters refusing to come together to make anything close to a human response. Anxiety subsided into a quiet sadness as he read and reread Dean’s words.

Dean. He wished he could be mad at him. He wished he could shove the phone back into his book bag, masturbate in frustration then wrap himself in his comforter and cry himself to sleep – as was custom. He’d been so good at it: so good at being mad, so good at being alone.

“I dreamed Of yOu.”

In his sudden, body-shaking stupidity, he actually sent it. He regretted it immediately, but was too tired to care. The phone was unplugged from the wall in the hopes that it’d die quickly. He felt oily with sweat. He pulled his shirt off before falling back into his bed.

He didn’t hear the phone vibrate.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

14.

They felt like they’d woken up in the middle of the night. Cas certainly was tired enough. He took another sip of coffee, his cell phone in one hand, his mug in the other. Gabe was choking on off-brand honey nut Cheerios.

“I hate Fall. Fall makes me want to sleep all the time.” Gabe said through mushy cereal.

“That’s not really a bad thing, though.”

“Are you waiting for a text?”

“Oh,” Cas said. “No.”

Gabe nodded in complete trust.

Since yesterday, Cas had kept a really, really light conversation going with Dean. After Cas had sent the first text, he’d gotten a text right back; and then another one. The first one read: “i know.” And then, some minutes after that one was sent: “can’t make it to practice friday. is that fine?”

Cas had almost not replied.

Cas had almost not replied to all the subsequent texts. If he didn’t, though, Dean would have the last word, and that didn’t sit right with him. He kept sending texts, hoping Dean wouldn’t reply, but he always did. So he’d send another. This continued. Cas realized they were having lengthy conversations, but it didn’t really feel like they were.

His phone vibrated in his palm as he brought his cup to his lips.

“i actually didnt go through a ‘scene’ stage, tyvm, so its not a ‘universal truth.’”

He wasn’t particularly sure how they’d gotten on this topic last night, mostly because he was half asleep when he’d wrote it, but he was too lazy to go back and check.

“Im pretty sure if i gOt On yOur facebOOk, it wOuld tell me a different stOry.”

Cas shot off his response, finishing the last of his coffee as he placed his phone on the table.

“I thought you hated coffee.” Gabe said before lifting the bowl to his mouth and slurping.

“I do.”

“Then why do you keep drinking it?”

“I- don’t know.” Cas placed his empty mug in the sink. “You need to hurry up. We got to leave soon.”

Gabe left the room as the phone vibrated again.

“pics u posted on facebook back in 6 grade dont count. btw why do u do the uppercase o’s?”

“One: they’re cOmpletely valid. The truest scene kids are the Ones that were Only scene in their hearts. twO: i think my brother switched the settings because it autOcOrrects it that way?”

“just because u thought scene kids were cool and tried to look like them in fb profile pics doesnt mean u were a scene kid.// have u tried changing it?”

“Semantics, dean. And ive tried I cOuldn’t figure it Out.”

“my entire life is based on semantics.// did u check the settings?”

“DOesnt change the fact that yOu wOuldve been a scene kid if yOud gOtten the chance to. The settings are cOnfusing tO me and i dOnt really mind it.”

“a lot of people would admit theyd murder someone if they had the chance doesnt mean theyre murderers.// how does it not bother you?”

“That was a terrible cOmparrisOn. And yOu get used tO it, i guess.

“why did he change it in the first place?”

“Idk.”

“i think you do know.”

“Its… left Over frOm a previOus argument.

“a previous argument? That was put carefully.”

“It invOlved some rather stupid tOuchy stuff. Freshmen year, yOu knOw.”

“the year of the scene kid.”

“Scene kid years are mOre middle schOOl years.”

“excuse me, i dont think embarrassing urself is reserved for just ms... speaking of, arent u supposed to be at school like rn?”

Cas checked the time. They were going to be late.

He shoved his feet in his shoes, grabbed his bookbag and ushered Gabe out the door, neither of them acknowledging the time or the fact that Cas had gotten (was still getting) distracted by his phone. He wanted something witty to send back, but Gabe was already making Im-getting-suspicious faces, so the reply had to be quick.

“Yeah, sO are yOu.”

He sent it and then thought the better of it. Shit. He was already driving when his phone vibrated.

“Should I see what it says?” Gabe asked, his hand already reaching for the phone in the cup-holder.

“No.” Cas said just loud enough to startle Gabe. Gabe’s hand still hovered. “I’ll wait until we get to school.”

“Well, it seemed pretty urgent, like, two seconds ago. What class even is it for?”

“Cal- Er, Lit-… Psychology.”

“Why can’t I read it?”

“Because, Gabriel, you’re distracting me and I’m trying to drive.”

“I’m just gonna-“

“No. No, put that down. Gabe, put it down, right now.”

“’bite me.’ Wow, what did you say?”

“Don’t you dare-“

“I’m not going to look through your conversation; get your hands back on the wheel! Jesus, Cas.”

“Just put the phone down.” Cas’ face was red; he could see it in his mirrors. He thanked God he hadn’t saved Dean’s number under his name. Gabe returned the phone to the cup holder. Silence fell fast and heavy. Gabe folded his hands in his lap. Cas could feel words building up behind Gabe’s lips.

“Who’s th-“ Cas flicked the radio on, cutting Gabe off. He didn’t want to lie anymore; mostly because he was doing a bad job of it. He was just going to have to ignore Gabe for a while.

They pulled into the parking lot just as the bell rang.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im just gonna post it all once so i dont lose my nerve like last time lmao sorry everyone i love you all

Cas wished he hadn’t shown up so late to the dress rehearsal. The auditorium was already crowded by the time he got there and it was a little disorienting.

He found it funny, however, that, without there being some distinguishable uniform, you could accurately tell the groups apart. The Frosh Choir were all acting like they were waaay too mature to be there, kicking their feet up, talking loudly, laughing louder and getting on the choral director’s nerves. The Frosh Choir wasn’t even a real choir. A bunch of freshmen were forced to take it, therefore dooming the whole choir to sound like the half that thought it would be a whole lot cooler if, instead of singing, they talked through the lyrics.

Near them, a line drawn right down two chairs, were the older, obviously regal, Concert Choir, split into Bass, Tenor, Alto, Soprano merely by habit. They scowled from their thrones, humming tunes in harmony under their breath to prove they were better than the Frosh Choir. They seemed almost demonic.

On the other side of the aisle were the bands. The pep band was the smallest group and the one farthest away, the members looking a little like rock singers at a Tupperware party. A few rows down was the Marching Band, a vast number of which were in a semi-circle, heads ducked, Nintendo DS’s in hand.

There were a few characters in black on the stage itself. They looked like they would look rocking in headsets.

Then there were the small groups: the octets, the quartets, etc. They were pounding parts like there was no tomorrow and it sounded like shit.

Then there was the miscellaneous group. Cas was a part of this group. Sadly, they were all the way in the front. Cas jogged down the aisle and sat as quickly as possible, his eyes scanning faces, hoping to find Dean’s but instead catching wayward glances. Their voices softened as he walked by.

While Dean had said he wouldn’t be able to go to last Friday’s practice, he hadn’t mentioned anything about the Dress Rehearsal. Cas hadn’t texted him since the whole “bite me” thing. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Well, no, actually, he’d thought of a lot of stuff he could’ve said, but he didn’t really think they were particularly appropriate to send. Instead, he’d just spent uncomfortable amounts of time staring at it and biting his lips.

Cas was there anyway, sitting on an aisle seat, trying to look occupied. Unfortunately, he’d left his phone on his desk, probably with Dean’s text on the screen (definitely with Dean’s text on the screen), so there wasn’t much he could do. The person nearest him looked like she was about to cry. Cas didn’t know her name but he knew she played violin. He almost said something, but when he turned his head toward her, her eyes got wide and he was pretty sure she didn’t want to talk to him. He continued to look forward.

He wanted to keep looking around, but he was self-conscious. Everyone behind him could see what he was doing. They could probably guess who he was looking for. If Dean was here, they were probably ultra-aware of it. Cas tried to search casually, but that was sorta hard to do from the front row. After a few minutes of failed attempts, Cas gave up, deciding, if Dean was there, he’d find him before their turn.

A bouncy woman waltzed up the stairs to the stage, comfortable in her skirt and heels. She clapped to get everyone’s attention and spoke without a microphone; not that she needed one. She said her name was Ms. King. She explained the order in which they were to do their performances, etc, etc. Cas basically tuned it out until it was about something relevant to him.

The piano players would be going last so they wouldn’t have to move the piano as much. While it was going to be on the stage for some of the other performances, it was only going to be center stage for the piano ones.

The duets were going to go last, since they required two pianos.

Cas could feel his jaw crack. The girl next to him whimpered, holding her violin case to her chest. He really didn’t want to go last. He really, really didn’t want to go last.

Ms. King handed papers off to the other authority figures, who went back to their respective groups. There were groans and excited chatter as adults spoke over teenagers. Mr. Singer just had them pass the paper around and memorize what time they went on. Apparently, not being a part of a big group meant no pep talk.

In the commotion, Cas decided to look around. He blatantly scanned all the faces in the group, going as quickly as possible. Honestly, he wasn’t really seeing faces. He was freaking himself out. With an inward sigh, he turned to hunker down in his chair.

His eyes met Dean’s. Neither teen’s expression changed. The people around them tried not to notice. The girl got up with her violin case and moved seats, huffing and red-faced.

Cas’ attention was drawn by more clapping from the stage that didn’t quite silence the auditorium. The bouncy woman ushered the first group on, asking the rest of them to remain quiet while they performed.

“We’ll figure out back-stage next practice.” Ms. King announced, her booming voice almost drowned out by grumbling freshmen.

Cas glanced back over, but Dean was looking at the stage. He wanted to go over there, but Dean was in the row above his, over a few seats. It wouldn’t exactly be subtle. The girl with the violin was being comforted by the girl with the cello.

Dean glanced back over, but Cas was looking at the stage. He wanted to go over there, but Cas was in the row in front of him, over a few seats. It wouldn’t exactly be subtle. The girl with the cello was comforting the girl with the violin.

The performances went by slowly. Every choir wanted to warm up, every musician wanted to tune up. There were a lot of random keys, random words, random chords. It felt weird for Cas, looking over at Dean, with dissonance in the background, keys held wrong. It seemed too dramatic for his liking.

He exchanged looks with Dean after every piece; whether in disgust or begrudged awe. Dean would smile. That was the best part.

As the groups finished, they were able to leave. The herd was thinning out by the time Cas started figuring out that that meant he and Dean would be at least one of the last to leave. Also, on a brighter note, that they wouldn’t have much of a crowd to play for. Cas didn’t actually know when they were supposed to go on. The violin girl had run off with the paper and Cas hadn’t thought to ask anyone. He assumed they were last. How Ms. King were putting it, it was very likely.

And in the end, very true.

A boy with thick glasses and dark skin finished his piano duet with a blonde girl in a turtleneck and floor length peasant skirt. Cas wanted to throw a look over at Dean, but chickened out. The only ones left were Mr. Singer, Ms. King, some of the stage hands, Cas and Dean.

They entered on different steps, getting to their pianos without being any closer than they were going to be throughout the performance. One of the grips, a girl with ungodly black hair, made jerking motions at Cas from behind the curtains. The guy behind her looked like he was about to bust a gut.

Dean caught Cas’ changed expression, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. The silence of them climbing the stairs was beginning to drag on into mega-uncomfortable territory. Every movement echoed. Every echo seemed louder than it should’ve been.

The piece went less-than-smooth. Dean could feel Cas shake from where he was sitting, could see the panic in his shadowed eyes. He tried to keep his on his piano. He wondered what Cas was seeing; his gaze kept wandering up and it wasn’t meeting Dean’s. Whatever it was, the teachers obviously didn’t see it - or maybe they just didn’t feel the need to intervene.

The last note reverberated over Ms. King’s words: the next practice was in two days. She scooped up her purse and headed out the door, her keys jingling on their lanyard. Mr. Singer followed suit, giving them both a vague expression.

Cas stood and stretched, overplaying casual. Dean couldn’t get his attention.

The girl stagehand sauntered by, shoving Cas as she went, followed closely by a tittering guy.

“Later, fag.” She tossed the comment over her shoulder. The other grip bumped into her, laughing and slinging an arm around her shoulder. Cas tilted his head, his fists clenched at his side, as they ambled towards the exit.

The door slam echoed.  Cas stalked forward, a slouch rounding his shoulders.

“Wait,” Dean’s voice was quiet. Cas was half-way down the stairs.

Cas hesitated before turning around to find Dean standing on the top of the steps; restless legs rocking him back and forth disturbing the wood with subtle creaks. Cas’ thoughts were a jumble of raw nerves and old insecurities. He ducked his head, hoping Dean hadn’t somehow seen the wetness in his eyes.

Quick footsteps reverberated around Cas as arms encompassed him. He stumbled backwards down the stairs, his face buried in Dean’s shoulder.

Dean smelled really good. Cas hadn’t noticed it when they’d been hard-core making out against a piano. There hadn’t been much time for casual cataloguing. But this exchange was soft and warm. The heat was pleasant instead of burning. He found himself wrapping his arms around Dean’s torso, his fingers digging into his shirt.

Dean held Cas, trying to figure out what to say. He felt there needed to be words; like he needed to reassure Cas of something solid, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to say anything. Instead, he held him tighter, laying his cheek on Cas’ forehead.

Cas turned his head so that his nose touched Dean’s. He’d planned on meeting Dean’s gaze, but he got distracted by Dean’s mouth, which was pressed into a firm line. He tilted his chin up, his lips ghosting over the Dean’s. Dean’s lips relaxed, a breath warming Cas’ face, smelling like cinnamon gum.

Dean turned his head away, his hand rubbing his face before covering his mouth. He untangled himself, holding Cas an arm’s length away; his fingers lingered on Cas’ shoulders. He opened his mouth a few times, but words continued to fail him. After a few attempts, he hoped whatever look on his face was enough.

He stumbled past Cas, his pace quickening the farther he got from him. His hand missed the door handle a few times before he was able to slip out.

Castiel was, again, the last to leave the auditorium. This trend really needed to stop.

_____

 

“Freshmen,” Cas grumbled under his breath. Dean tilted his head forward just far enough to see them, the dead look in their eyes.

“They’re so broken,” Dean whispered. Cas glanced at him from the corner of his eye. They were sitting blatantly away from the rest of the group in chairs that no one seemed to care they were using. Backstage was darkened for a more authentic practice.

“They can’t remember life before the Choir.” Cas whispered back.

“They haven’t had a decent not-harmony-related conversation in weeks.”

“That one particularly; he’s having an identity crisis something fierce.”

“The kid next to him doesn’t even look sentient anymore.”

“Oh shit, they saw us.” Dean ducked his head. Cas covered his face, fighting the laughter that was shaking his frame. The freshmen shuffled past, the ones in front wearing melodramatic sneers that were only enhanced by their royal blue choir robes. Ms. King’s college-student assistant, Mr. Greer, brought up the back, demanding silence backstage.

There were a few moments of hesitation before off-key music trickled back stage, rolling across the floor, barely having enough momentum to make it to the stacked prop boxes. They lapsed into silence.

One would’ve thought the silence was awkward, but neither party noticed. They’d been much absorbed in their thoughts for the majority of practice and it seemed natural to lapse back into them. Really, they didn’t so much think as to aimlessly day-dream. As of late, any real sentient thought quickly turned into a fuck-all of self-pity and endless decision making.

“I feel bad for the ones who actually want to be here,” Cas whispered, “The freshmen, I mean.” Dean nodded.

“They sound awful.”

“They’re going to have to be on-stage at the end of the week, singing-“

“This is going to be embarrassing for them.”

“That used to be me.” Cas pursed his lips. Dean threw him a surprised look.

“Bass?”

“Tenor.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Mr. Greer shushed them louder than they were talking. Cas mouthed an apology then ducked farther behind the boxes.

“Church choir.” Cas continued softly, leaning closer to Dean so he could hear him.

“Spiritual man.”

“Not really. No one wanted to be in the choir.”

“Except you?”

“Except me.” Cas confirmed.

“My mom used to be in the choir.” Dean whispered.

“What happened?”

“She died.”

“Oh, uh, I’m- shit. I’m sorry. I… knew that.” Cas stumbled over his words, his ears turning red.

“That was a pretty stupid question, Cas.” Dean was smirking, despite the subject matter.

“I was just making conversation, Dean.”

“Well, you’re doing it badly.”

“You’re still talking to me, aren’t you?” Cas was trying really hard to keep a straight face, even though he was sure it was beet red. Dean made a point of tucking his lips in his teeth and not talking, staring Cas in the eye with his eyebrows raised. Cas tried to start a sentence, but Dean shook his head vigorously. He waited until Dean was finished before he opened his mouth to speak again. Dean pushed his finger against Cas’ lips, placing his other finger on his own mouth. Cas’ smile spread against Dean’s pointer finger. He parted his lips, melodramatically taking a breath, to talk. Dean’s hand slid over the bottom half of Cas’ face, sealing his mouth shut.

“No, don’t talk.” Dean whispered, smiling, his eyes dark backstage. He leaned forward, pressing his lips lightly against the tip of Cas’ nose.

He pulled away entirely, his hand dropping from Cas’ face as he turned forward on his chair. The last of the frosh choir’s redundant song echoed falteringly around them. Cas had just enough sense about him to turn the same direction as Dean.

Dean was still smiling.


	16. Chapter 16

Cas really wanted a cigarette. He hadn’t even thought about cigarettes in over a month, but his dreams had been cycling up a multitude of buried shit and he really wanted a cigarette now.

He smashed the sudden craving as far down his throat as it would wedge, zipping up his parka and grabbing his duffel bag as he pushed his door open. Cold air and the murmurs of shuffling people spilled into his car, sounding mostly of entitled white men and not as much as their quieted wives.

The Midwest was a great place to live. Cas was thankful when he got backstage.

The past few days had been more stress than Cas had anticipated. Honestly, he hadn’t really thought about stress when he’d signed up. It’d just felt like a good idea at the time. Do what he loved, meet new people, maybe become an actual part of the school. In theory, there was no down side.

It’d turned out a little differently in practice.

In the dark behind the curtain, the stage lost its magic, became the smoke and mirrors that it was. It felt like when you look up an actor from a movie and the accent they have in real life is very different than the one they used in the movie. Cas moved as silently as possible, avoiding the random drink bottles and photocopied sheet music that had been collecting on the floors behind the scenes over the past week. Most of the bottles were half full and most of the music was unintelligibly notated.

Dean was sitting behind some boxes, which were stacked higher than Dean was tall, full of random props from previous productions. Cas placed his duffel bag on top, wiggling his arms out of his parka and setting it to the side. He straightened his tie, nodding at Dean and taking the metal chair next to him. Dean gave him the thumbs up; Cas gave it back, his lip turning up in a half-grin.

Even though they’d hung out, they hadn’t really talked about the first dress rehearsal. Which was fine by Cas. The place they were sitting wasn’t exactly private. Cas felt the other performers breathing down his neck: in a wayward glance that lasted too long, or a pointed whisper, tucked so that he couldn’t hear it. He knew paranoia was probably getting the best of him.

But then, Dean wasn’t exactly sitting easy either. In a morbid way, Cas liked it. He’d been dealing with this on his own for over a week. It was about time Dean joined in.

Misery loves company, after all.

Heels clicked softly by. Ms. King’s clipboard had become an object of hate amongst the freshmen and Cas was sure she wasn’t checking any other list; nor was she too interested in what anyone – besides the freshmen – was doing backstage.  She waved, a pen in her hand, and Dean and Cas waved back. It was a real mark of a woman, being able to walk on the creaky wooden floors in red high heels without making any more noise than gangly teenagers in ill-fitting sneakers.

She made her way to the edge of the curtain, checking her watch. Cas checked his.

“Two minutes.” He whispered. Dean nodded.

Ms. King’s voice was muffled from where they were sitting, but the cadence was pretty. She introduced the school and the groups representing it. Dean adjusted his sleeve cuffs, unfolding them and folding them again. He checked their length, bending his arms and feeling where the fabric touched his elbow.

Dean leaned against the boxes next to him. He could only see Ms. King trying to conduct from the piano, frustration present in the pinching of her brow.

It really felt a lot like dress rehearsals.

As was their way, Concert choir sauntered past, their footsteps in-sync, their blinks in-sync. They were a force of dark energy, sucking all the hope out of the smaller groups. Their eyes shone in the dark like a bird of prey cornering a wounded animal. But they went on-stage and looked like normal human teenagers. It was truly frightening.

The pep band almost didn’t make it in time. Thankfully, someone from the marching band knew where they were and fetched them. The smell of cigarettes trailed behind them as they sprinted out the curtains. They weren’t actually that good, but what they lacked in talent and practice, they made up for in volume and charisma.

The small groups went by in an embarrassed blur, going in with shaking heads and coming back with slumped shoulders and a haunted look in their eyes. They’d all admitted they’d put off learning their part and they were paying for it with their blood. It was sobering to see them, flopping with sweat.

Marching band scurried on stage. One of them actually handed their DS to Cas and told him to look after it. Cas looked over to Dean, meaning to cock an eyebrow, but Dean’s eyes were closed, his head against the boxes, his arms crossed.

Dean had fallen asleep. Cas wasn’t really surprised. Dean had been getting progressively more tired; his sleepless hours apparent on his drawn face. He’d wave away any worried eyes, especially if they came from a silent Cas – who would be embarrassed seeing as he hadn’t realized he was making them – then he’d yawn and stretch, his eyes drooping and wet.

It was disquieting now, though, to see Dean with the bite taken out of his brow. He looked almost child-like, his eyelashes throwing shadows onto the spray of freckles that flecked across his ruddy cheeks and nose. The marching band was playing something softly orchestral, something that seemed to melt into the scene, like the well-placed music in 80s movies. He knew he should probably wake Dean up now so he wouldn’t have to do it right before their performance, but he stayed his hand for the moment.

The not-piano instrument people weren’t lasting nearly as long. They went on stage, they went off stage. Half of them looked bored doing both, the other half hyperventilating the same.

The kid hadn’t come back for his DS.

The first of the piano solos began. Cas was fiddling with the plastic object in his hand, his nerves getting the better of him. He should probably wake Dean up anyway.

“Dean?” He whispered.

“Yeah,” Dean responded, his eyes still closed.

“Some kid handed me their DS.”

“That’s great, Cas,”

“I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I don’t know, man, put it down, it’s not your problem.”

“Yeah…”

Dean turned to look at Cas.

Cas was visibly jittery. While it all seemed very natural to be a little nervous, something in the pallor of Cas’ cheeks didn’t seem right. Dean placed his hand on Cas’ knee, trying to quiet the nervous bounce. Cas drooped forward, folded his hands between his legs, DS included.

“You okay?” Dean whispered, his head leaned close. Cas blew air out of his nose.

“Yeah,” He murmured, leaning back in his chair. Dean’s hand stayed on his knee. “Just nervous I’ll screw up.”

“Fuck that,” Dean replied solemnly. The sleep had totally left his eyes. “You don’t owe anyone shit.”

“That was truly philosophical, Dean.”

“Fuck your sarcasm, too.”

“I’m feeling much better now.”

Despite the sarcastic Monty Python reference, Cas really meant it. He felt better. A little bit.

The blonde was adjusting the dark-skinned boy’s bow tie. She was talking sternly, but he was nodding in agreement. Cas and Dean would be on after them and they would be up soon.

“Hey, look at me,” Dean said with the same seriousness as before. “I wasn’t kidding. No matter what happens…” Dean mega-hesitated, a war evident on his face. “We’re doing this for us. No one else. Just… go with it.”

Cas’ mouth opened, then closed. His brow furrowed.

“All right.”

Dean and Cas knew the song before theirs pretty well. They knew when it crescendo’d. They knew when it ended. They pretended to read each other’s expression, but they were both lost. Their minds worked on problems like a spoon works on the wall of a prison cell; blindly, directionless, prying at something that wouldn’t open itself up to them no matter how much they pleaded it to. The keys fell with the shake of their pupils, the settling of their hair. They were trapped, trapped in that they kept failing to look away.

The audience knew Cas and Dean were the last ones to perform and they were acting accordingly. The men were getting their coats on, the women clutching their purses. Dean and Cas walked onto stage without an introduction since those had already been done. They sat at their pianos, the tension of before tearing at the space between them, rippling the air like steam.

It was silent, though it didn’t particularly feel like anyone was listening.

Cas started in, his notes lingering like a warm breath. He focused on the walls in his head, the safety of straight edges, of confinement. Of knowing and bettering. Dean returned his tentative notes with quiet passion, his mouth a fine line closer to a pout than anything.

Their pauses lasted longer, their trilling runs beginning softly then growing and subsiding, like light shining through the trembling leaves of a twisted tree, smattering dulled colors with bursts of vibrant white.

Similes be damned, they were playing their own story into the air, painting it onto the ebony of the piano, erasing it with the ivory. What had been walls, turned to find hallways, leading back to where they started: with this stupid song. This stupid Goddamn song would be the fucking end of them. It had caused so many problems; its melody had become something very different than what it’d originally sounded to them. It seemed tremendously ridiculous that they’d been stuck with it for so long and now was the last time to do anything about it.

They’d finished all too soon. Cas dropped his hands to his lap, expecting to be met with polite applause that he could slink off the stage to.

He, instead, among the clapping, heard a different but all-too-familiar tune.

It cut into the chaos, automatically organizing it in his mind.

Dean’s lips were pursed. There was a pause as the crowd tried to decide if they’d been rude, if there’d been some confusion. Cas could feel his composure melting as Dean played the same measure as before. Cas locked eyes with a fuming Ms. King and her even angrier looking assistant.  A few students were standing behind them, bewildered and slightly uncomfortable looking.

His attention was pulled towards Dean, who looked at him through his eyelashes. The smile that was turning up the edges of his lips was meant only for Cas to see; and it got its point across.

Just go with it.

Cas played the same measure back to Dean on the lower end of the scale.

Dean tried a more difficult variant on for size, leading it straight into a silence. The audience was ghostly.

Cas held his gaze for as long as he could manage before delving in, hands first. While their practiced song had been easy and slow, this one came crashing down around them. It splintered and cracked and shattered, leaving ragged unfinished edges exposed and measures whose times were as meaningless as the taken aback stares of the crowd below them.

The song had been a lot of things to Cas. It’d been grief and boredom and crazy amounts of time. It’d been waiting for Dean to show up to practice, profanity just below the surface as his watch counted the minutes. It’d been an agitated rebuttal to an awkward situation. It’d been an old friend, wise and knowing, like how an old building’s walls echo the actions of their past owners.

Now, the song was raw and ugly; most of it was a blatant mess. In every sense of the word, it should’ve been embarrassing. Cas was grinning, despite his best efforts. Dean grinned with him, bumbling a non-specific under-harmony that barely contributed.

Cas had always thought there’d never be a natural end to his ramblings, that they’d keep leading into each other until he stopped playing for one reason or the other. That’s how it usually went. He’d never thought, however, that he would play the song with another person in front of an auditorium full of people. The thought grew heavy in his mind, trying his fingers, which would’ve rather kept going perpetually.

He worked himself down to one hand, running rhythmically up into the higher notes, slowing as it went. Dean had dropped out, fingers at the ready, his eyes locked onto Cas, whose were closed. A heavy breath escaped Cas, visible in his dropping shoulders and the parting of his lips.

Cas brought his hands back to the keys: the original melody. He played it a few beats slower, his eyes flicking open, seriousness in the curve of his eyebrows. He’d let himself go; he’d gone too far. It was a tree tipping in the wrong direction. But then, he was tired of taking it on himself to decide which direction was wrong. He was tired of pretending he was the only one who made decisions at all. He clung to Dean’s steady look, hoping someday they’d both be able to actually reconcile this - any of this, all of it.

He held the last notes; Dean responded with a closer on the other end of the piano. They drifted, reverberated together, blending and dying as a single wave.

The audience hesitated. They’d learned their lessons.

Ms. King was side-stage, for once an unreadable expression on her face. Mr. Greer wasn’t to be seen.

Dean made a gesture that could be defined as: “Let’s get the fuck out of here before something bad happens.”

Cas hurried off his bench as the first of the applause filled the auditorium. For the performer in him, Cas bowed, hoping it was dramatic enough to pass off as irony. Dean grabbed his hand and pulled him off-stage. Teenagers stood, shocked in different ways, their hands covering their mouths, as Cas and Dean grabbed their stuff off the prop boxes and headed quickly towards the back exit.

Spent cigarette butts littered the thinning rock garden. Cas was laughing, hard, his eyes watering. He leaned against the brick wall next to the door dropping his parka and duffel bag on either side of him. Dean’s lips eagerly found his, Cas’ laughter coming out of his nose in the form of a sighing breath. Their foreheads kept in contact when their lips parted.

Cas tried to catch his breath, his hands roaming the length of Dean’s torso. He was still hiccupping in amusement as he carefully memorized Dean’s eyes in the dim light. Seriousness was slow to come to him, even though Dean had been, was still.

Cas leaned in slowly, testing the air as it moved around him. His kiss was soft at first, and then increased in heat drastically. It was unashamed hunger and months of squashed thoughts and feelings. Dean’s palms scraped against the rough texture of the brick, grinding dirt into his skin. He sighed into Cas’ lips.

Cas pushed him away gently, holding his head against his, his eyes closed. The cold was starting to cut through his clothes. He mulled over his next words.

“Do you…” He stopped and chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Wanna come back to my place?” Dean murmured, pressing his nose against Cas’.

“Your place would probably be better.”

Dean grabbed Cas’ duffel bag as Cas wrapped himself in his parka. Dean led the way to his car, his bare forearms freezing in the evening chill. They kept a distance from each other, the surrounding silence becoming exponentially tenser as they neared the main entrance and Dean’s truck. Their eyes fell on the glass doors, the hall within that lead to the stage. Cas got a little closer to Dean, pushing him to go faster.

They got into the car, Dean tossing Cas’ bag into the back from the driver’s seat while Cas watched the entrance expectedly from the passenger’s. Adults were beginning to shuffle out. A few noticed the truck when it started up, their hair tousled in the breeze.

Ms. King looked apologetic as she walked alongside a gentleman with a mustache and his exuberant wife. The wife looked like she was about to pop a vein; Ms. King’s face was the definition of reluctant kiss-ass. Their mouths were moving at the same time, though the other woman’s seemed to be set at stream while Ms. King’s was set to sprinkle. The husband looked sad, confused and a little sweaty.

The truck pulled out of the parking lot as Ms. King caught eyes with Cas, her eyebrows furrowing in a way Cas failed to interpret.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

They stumbled in gracelessly, having spent the entire car ride forgetting to talk and straining to stay on their side of the seat. They were rewarded now with hands and skin and lips; though words were still lost on them. Dean was pushed against the wall opposite the front door, his icy cheeks quickly losing their sting in the rushed touch of Cas’ mouth and fingers.

Cas’ parka was left somewhere in the entryway, but the duffel bag still hung from Cas’ shoulder. Dean grabbed Cas by the waist, pushing him off and pulling him up the stairs.

They kissed every couple steps.

They kissed when they got to the top.

They kissed outside his bedroom.

Dean opened his bedroom door, nodding Cas in with a mumbled: be right back. He poked his head into Sam’s room.

“Could you spend the night in the guest room?” Sam had already grabbed his pillow and laptop, having obviously heard the climb up the stairs. “Thanks-“

“Don’t.” Sam slinked by him. Dean would deal with that later. He waited until Sam was halfway down the stairs before turning to his own room. Dean hardly got the door open before Cas’ hand was wrapped in his tie, pulling him into the room.

Kissing Cas was addicting. More than Dean had imagined and Dean had, warily, imagined it a lot. But until that moment, it hadn’t felt like anything more than kissing. Now, Cas wasn’t holding back and, as it turned out, he knew what he was doing. It was becoming more thoughtless action, more unsatisfied need. Cas’ body was insistent on Dean’s, pushing him backwards. He fell onto the bed, barely having enough time to scoot back before Cas crawled on.

Cas pulled sideways at the knot of Dean’s tie, tugging it off in one fluid motion, pushing his lips hard against Dean’s. Once the first article of clothing had hit the floor, it only made sense to both of them that they got the rest of it out of the way. Cas’ hand worked down the buttons on Dean’s shirt while Dean struggled with Cas’ tie. Cas’ fingertips brushed against the skin at Dean’s naval, causing him to gasp softly. Dean tried to kick his own shoes off, but they clung stubbornly to his ankles. He turned his head away from the kiss, pressing his cheek against Cas’.

“I can’t get your fucking tie off.”

“How very man-virgin of you.” Cas’ fingers were toying with the catch of Dean’s pants. He used his other hand to smoothly remove his own tie, holding it up like a trophy before dropping it off the side of the bed, too. “I have something… kind of embarrassing to admit.”

Dean was heavily distracted by Cas trying to get his fly undone. If Cas hadn’t noticed his hard-on before, it was belligerently noticeable now. Cas kissed Dean’s temple, his hand hovering.

“I had… more or less, hoped this would happen,” Cas explained. Dean could feel him smirk, probably because he knew how fucking stupid that sounded. “I fucking bought lube and condoms, okay? They’re in the duffel bag.”

“Lame.” Dean murmured, struggling to keep steady as Cas found the waistline of his boxers.

“Horny.” Cas countered, opting to kiss Dean hard and hop off the bed instead of unclothing him. He rifled through the front pocket of his duffel bag.

The lube and condoms were tossed onto the bed next to Dean. They landed with a dull thud as Cas’ fingers hooked the belt loops of Dean’s pants, jerking them down to his ankles. Dean’s shoes proudly blocked the way of a full de-panting.

“I’ll take your shoes off later,” Cas mumbled, pulling himself up to Dean’s hips.

Dean tried to think of something witty to say, but was interrupted by Cas’ hands dragging against his skin, yanking his underwear off. Dean whined, biting his lip. Cas let his fingers trail up the length of Dean’s dick, enjoying the submissive noises Dean made in the back of his throat.

Dean’s hands were useless at his sides, unsure of what they were allowed to do, so instead they clenched the blankets. Cas’ lips caressed, open mouthed.

“Shit.” Dean hissed, his head tilting backwards. Cas pressed his tongue against his tip, pinning his hips down so he wouldn’t move. Dean’s back arched regardless, a wordless groan escaping him. Cas took this as his go-ahead to go further down.

Cas was talented with his tongue, his lips. Dean was losing himself quickly.

“Oh, god,” He moaned, his hands finally finding where Cas’ were on his hips. Dean’s thoughts were absolutely scattered, his eyes pinched shut. “I- fuck. I’m-“

He came into Cas’ mouth, slightly embarrassed that it’d happened so quickly. Cas swallowed.

Cas was still completely clothed. Dean attempted to stutter an apology, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologizing for. He was interrupted by Cas’ lips, pressed damn-near gingerly to his.

“I’m not finished with you,” Cas breathed, lingering. Dean hesitated, letting the sound of Cas’ breath engulf him.

“Good.”

_____

“Fuck,“ Cas sighed, rocking slightly as he adjusted. Dean’s stroke on Cas’ member was slow. Cas’ knees wrinkled the sheets on either side of Dean’s hips. Cas pushed his knees harder against the bed, spreading himself further. Dean’s breath caught in his ribs.

“God, Cas.” Dean groaned, his grip tightening.

“Say my name again,” Cas breathed, his eyebrows pinched upwards. Dean laughed once, harsh and sighing. Cas’ mouth set into a line as he twisted his hips. Dean’s grin turned into open-mouthed surprise, his eyes opening. Cas was flushed with sweat, his cheeks tinted red, the soft light of the lamp the only thing illuminating his eyes.

“Cas,” His name left Dean’s lips faintly, a prayer. Cas leaned forward, his hands gripping Dean’s shoulders, quickening his pace. Dean bucked under him, his other hand slipping onto Cas’ hip. Cas’ name became a chant of supplication, begging aimlessly. It was the most important word in Dean’s vocabulary. It was the only word.

Cas flew apart to it, coming into Dean’s hand. His orgasm wracked his body, his lungs hard pressed to find the air. Dean wasn’t far behind, the sight of Cas enough to push him over the edge. Cas kissed Dean hard before collapsing onto the bed beside him.

Their breath mixed above them as they lay on their backs, reeling. Cas’ hand went through his own hair, which stuck up at weird angles. He felt generally oily – lube and sweat and spit, et cetera. Dean pulled the condom off, tossing it over the side with the others.

“Safety,” Dean commented, referring to the empty condom wrappers littered guiltily about like fun-size Snickers wrappers. Cas turned his head, laughing into Dean’s shoulder. He pressed his lips against Dean’s bare skin. A few more moments, punctuated with settling breaths, passed over them.

“That was weird,” Cas murmured.

“We used all the condoms,”

“I know. I’m going to have to buy more,”

“Yeah,” Dean leaned down and kissed Cas’ hair. Cas failed to meet his eye, biting his lip over the implication of future sex. Heck yeah.

“I feel gross,”

“We have a bathroom,” Dean said in a low voice. Cas pursed his lips.

“I don’t feel like moving,” He mumbled, nuzzling his nose into Dean’s shoulder.

“Then I’ll go take a shower and you can just lie here alone.” Dean heaved himself off the bed, stretching. Cas propped himself up on his elbows. He sighed, rolling off the bed and following after him into the hall.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

“I guess I hadn’t actually thought about what would happen after the song was over. I mean, I’d thought maybe intense butt sex but other than that…” Dean muttered. He was curled facing Cas, who was lying on his side in his boxers under the clean blankets of Dean’s bed.

“Ms. King’s going to kill us.” Cas breathed a laugh, his eyes fully adjusted to the dim light of the side table lamp. “Did you see her?”

“No, I was busy driving us frantically to my house. It took all my concentration.”

“I have no idea what she’s going to do… what the parents are going to do.”

“The parents?”

“I have a feeling the rumors have gotten a little more out of hand than we think. We’re on the Bible Belt, Dean. We’re in for Hell come Monday.”

“Well then, good thing the rumors aren’t true,” Dean murmured, sneaking a peck on Cas’ lips.

“Completely groundless,” Cas huffed, pecking Dean back. “Total conjecture.”

An awkward beat spurred Cas forward.

“Does any of this… bother you?” He whispered.

“What do you mean?” Dean whispered back.

“I mean… I don’t mean to put a damper on the whole night, but… I mean, I have no idea how you’re doing.”

“’How I’m doing?’ Cas-”

“No, but seriously. I just had your dick in my ass and I don’t even know what’s going on with you.”

“You make a good argument.” Dean sighed, grabbing Cas’ hand. It went unacknowledged, but it was well received. Dean sighed again, deeper this time. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Wherever.”

“Mr. Singer was an old friend of my dad’s apparently. It- there might’ve been- There was a plan already set for if- when my dad died. They hadn’t thought it was going to be a car accident, but whatever. Mr. Singer is signed off as our legal-guardian until I turn 18, and then the plan has a few different routes. And,” Dean paused, his thumb massaging the back of Cas’ hand. “Mr. Singer knew my dad really well. Really well. He… talked me through some stuff. And, you know, I don’t really miss him, my dad. And I thought- I thought for the first week that that was somehow my fault. That the whole thing… but he had a plan written out and- I’m getting ahead of myself. Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Talk all you need.”

“It’s just- I haven’t really been able to talk to Sam about this, you know?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there. Gabe. My mom died.”

“Same.” Dean stopped massaging Cas’ hand.

“Haha, riiight. Your mom… is…”

“Oh, God, this is just a wreck,” Dean held Cas’ hand tight.

“The sex was good though,”

“True,” Dean cracked a smile.

“I’m… actually really a lot worse at this than I thought.” Cas muttered, pursing his lips.

“Worse at what?”

“Talking to people, delicately. Working through issues.”

“I don’t know. I feel pretty good right now.”

“That’s the sex talking.”

“Probably. Is that a bad thing?” Dean pressed his lips against Cas’ hand. Cas buried his face in the sheets. Dean continued to press, feeling the skin of Cas’ fingers against his lips.

“Hand kissing is fucking cheesy.” Cas whispered.

“Do you want me to stop?” Dean whispered back.

“…No.” Dean continued to kiss. “It’s just… in my mind I was always really good at handling people. At my old school… at my old school, I- I don’t know. I was… I was like a god. I made a difference to people. That was… I did for a while. It was all bad, in the end. Then I thought ‘new school, new me,’ if that’s not the most worn down expression ever. I thought maybe if I had a fresh start, I could put all these people skills to work and make up for my past – people skills I really don’t think I have. I guess the whole ‘no friends’ thing should’ve tipped me off.”

Dean’s eyes darkened, holding Cas’ hand to his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Dean breathed.

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, I mean,” Dean tilted his head up, catching eye contact. “I said some really shitty stuff. Really shitty and I don’t even know why. I didn’t- I didn’t know how to deal with you and I thought maybe- I’m sorry I-“

Cas kissed Dean forcefully, using the hand that Dean had pushed against his cheek to run through his hair. Dean kissed back softly, brushing Cas’ cheekbone with his fingertips.

“Shut up,” Cas murmured, “You’re forgiven.”

“Well, thank God.”

“I guess I’m sorry for talking shit, too.”

“Well, you’re not forgiven.”

“That sucks.” Cas sighed. Dean’s hand was cradling his face, Cas’ was woven into Dean’s hair. Cas yawned, then crinkled his nose. “Jeez, what time is it?”

“Oh, like,” Dean yawned, pulling himself over Cas to check the alarm clock. “Dammit. It’s fucking contagious. It’s like 3 a.m.”

“Wow,”

“S’pretty late.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m not even tired,”

“Mmm,”

“You’re not even responding,”

“Yes, I am,” Cas muttered into the sheets. And then silence.

“I’m just going to roll over now-“

“-Ok-“

“Turn off the lamp.”

“Hm.”

“Good night,”

“I love you,” Cas whispered, slipping his arm around Dean’s waist and pulling himself closer. Dean was facing away from him, his eyes fighting to adjust to the darkness. He tried not to visibly sputter.

Dean hadn’t imagined… well, he hadn’t imagined a lot of things, actually, but Castiel confessing feelings was definitely top of the “not-imagined” list. But it was such a big deal in his mind now. It knocked the breath out of him, in a really good way. In the best way possible.

Dean was unable to respond before Cas had fallen asleep against his back.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

Sam was feeling better. Not perfect; not even close to perfect, but he was feeling better. The school hallways were oddly invigorating and the classes were- smart- and the teachers- were-

Okay, school still sucked. School was still just the worst. Sam couldn’t even pretend otherwise. But it was still bitter sweet. He enjoyed everything being back to normal. Normal school, normal students, normal classes, normal sports, normal girls looking at him like he was some hot sob-project (which was pretty cool with Sam, actually).

Not everything was normal though.

Gabe… was… Gabe. Gabe would always be Gabe. Gabe had finally had one truly sincere and thoughtful moment in his life and everything was okay. Everything was okay. Not perfect, though. Not even close.

The Impala was in the garage under a tarp. Repaired. Untouched.

Then there was the whole thing with his brother. Sam sighed, literally and mentally, at the mention. It was the worst. Because he knew and he couldn’t talk about it. It was just a lot of “I don’t know man.” “I think that’s fake.” “I don’t know whats going on with Dean.” And so on and so forth. It was getting a little tricky coming up with new things to say to people that weren’t blindingly sarcastic and cynical.

Because Sam knew. He’d always known. He was fucking- Goddamn motherfucking right. It was so exciting. It almost made up for all the lying he had to do. Dean would never hear the end of it, Sam would make sure of that. For the first time since their dad’s death, they’d sat down and talked about shit. It was great.

And Cas was great. Sam didn’t think Dean would want him to get girly about it, but… yeah. Cas was great.

Sam was standing in the hallways, both his arms and his bag full of books. He was excused from a lot of the work, but he didn’t like being behind. He was just going to half-ass catch up. It was the least he could do.

Students shuffled by, making their way to the parking lot. Wednesday had flown by for the first time in a long time. Apparently everyone was getting a little uncomfortable with the rumors because Sam hadn’t been asked about them. It might’ve been because Dean and Cas had been blatantly hanging out. It was getting a little too close to home for some of the heterosexual boys, understandably. Sam applauded them for their security.

Gabe stood silently behind him. Sam threw him a glance, adjusting the straps of his book bag so they didn’t dig so much into his shoulders, before walking with the flow of students. Gabe remained silent, his nearly empty book bag hanging loosely from his shoulder, his hands dug into his pockets, shoelaces securely tied as he followed closely. Sam hadn’t gotten him into sweater vests and middle-parted hair yet, but he felt it was only a few steps away.

The door wasn’t left open. It opened and closed with the students, allowing cold air to blow into the halls at a controlled rate. Sam and Gabe slowed the closer they got to it. It was fucking brisk out. They waited at the glass door, adjusting their coats and putting on gloves they’d told themselves they were way too busy to wear. Sam had to hand his books to Gabe as he did so, dropping his back pack onto the ground and fixing his jacket and hat.

“Hey,” Gabe whispered, gesturing with Sam’s books, directing his attention to something outside. Sam grabbed his book bag off the floor, scanning the walk.

Teens were getting into their cars, talking to their friends, waiting for their rides. Dean and Cas were strolling down the sidewalk, their hands looking lost at their sides. Dean was speaking; Cas was grinning like an idiot. They got to the end of the sidewalk, to the edge of the parking lot. Their cars were in opposite directions.

Everything about them got softer as they faced each other. Cas kept moving his hands - running through his own hair, grabbing the strap of his book bag, tucking into his pocket – as he spoke. He hesitated then hooked a thumb to his car, waving goodbye with his other hand.

Dean grabbed the hand that was waving, pulling him closer. He kissed him, hard and quick, almost too fast for the mind to fully wrap around what’d happened.  They pulled away with shit-eating grins.

Gabe spun on his heel, forgetting he was still holding Sam’s books. Sam snagged them nearly out of the air.

“Wait, hold on-“ Sam was trying to balance the sudden textbooks in his arms as Gabe pushed his way out the door as forcefully and dramatically as he could muster. Dean and Cas were booking it to their cars, which were also Sam and Gabe’s respective rides.

Sam was trying to ignore the teens that he passed, most of whom had no idea what had happened. The ones who did, however, were trying their best to make a fuss and that was actually frightening.

“Gabe, wait-“

“I am not going to stay late because your brother’s horny, Sam. I’ve got shit to do.”

“Everyone fucking heard that, Gabe, Goddammit it.”

Gabe was sprinting, guffawing at the teens closest to the action, who looked almost as shocked as Sam imagined they would.

Dean was sitting at the wheel, his chair leaned all the way back, his hands folded on his chest as he made faces at the ceiling.

Sam dumped everything into the passenger seat, papers pouring out of books and books landing with their spines up and their pages being crumpled against the floor. Dean adjusted his chair back to its original position, biting his lips and looking cherry red.

“Did you-“

“Just fucking drive.”

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

Cas walked into the auditorium, still fighting the cold that had worked its quick way into his bones. Technically speaking, the stage wasn’t open for use, but the winter musical was having rehearsals, so the door was open. The rehearsal wasn’t supposed to be for another hour or so; the soloist and small groups were working in the music room with Ms. King.

Luckily, Cas hadn’t run into anyone on his way in.

He strolled down the aisle, shaking his coat off and tossing it aside, taking in the unborn set, which were mostly backdrops set out to dry and a few sheets of cloth hanging off a pretty banged up armchair. Cas wasn’t sure what play they were supposed to be doing, but it wasn’t obvious by the set, that was for sure. He ran his fingers over the rough material of the chair, picking at the cotton that was sticking out of a rip. The door opened and closed. Cas refused to look.

“Hello,” Dean whispered.

“Do you know where the piano went?” Cas asked, putting the cotton back. Dean pushed the cushion of the chair, checking its weight tolerance. It creaked loudly, but held firm.

“No. Why are we so interested in this chair?” Dean plopped himself down in said chair, his elbow resting on the arm, waving listlessly. It was very Kirk-esque.

“We’re not.” Cas leaned over the side, taking Dean’s hand. “Let’s check backstage.”

Cas pulled Dean onto his feet, the cloth falling off the back of the chair. They padded across the stage, admiring the half-painted backsets. The boxes they’d sat next to the week before were unstacked and open. Odds and ends were haphazardly spilling onto the floor.

Tucked behind the curtain, ready to be transported, was a single piano. Dean pulled the bench out from where it was wedged underneath, offering the seat to Cas. Cas was still at the edge of the curtain. He checked the auditorium, out into the chairs and the red-maroon lighting. While the auditorium was definitely empty and there was an ample amount of time, Cas was hesitant.

Seeing Dean next to the piano again, how he’d met Dean, the circumstances of where he was then and how little he cared if anyone else walked in on them made his mind up for him. Something in him fell into place. Biting his lips, he walked forward and pushed Dean backwards onto the bench.

“I thought we would-“ Dean started, placing his outside hand lightly on the piano. Cas straddled his lap, pressing him against the keys softly. The hammers didn’t make a sound. He’d thought of this exact situation before; though, he thought he’d have done it during a practice before the concert. Better late than never.

“Yeah,” Cas whispered into Dean’s ear, cradling his face with his hands. Dean clung to Cas’ hips, holding Cas up. “I think I’m going to kiss you instead.”

Dean’s next words were caught on Cas’ lips, the piano muttering in irritation. Dean’s hands gripped Cas closer. They kissed like they hadn’t before; as if this were rehearsal, as if nothing had been lost and they’d owned up to everything before it’d gotten so messy. They kissed like the piano was on-stage, the curtains drawn back, the auditorium still empty and still echoing and still red-maroon and still beckoning. Still full of promise, full of anticipation. Of uncertainty and pride and frustration.

They were sliding off the bench, Dean’s legs pushing against the floor; the only thing keeping them on. Cas broke off the kiss, leaning into Dean’s shoulder and securing his knees on the bench in an attempt to keep them from falling onto the floor.

“Shit,” Cas snickered into Dean’s shirt.

“I love you.” Dean whispered quickly. Cas froze in Dean’s arms, his hands moving from Dean’s face to his shoulders. He slid his knees off the bench, standing in front of him, his hands replacing themselves on Dean’s jawline. Dean’s hands still hung from Cas’ hips.

Friday night had been weighing heavy in Cas’ mind for the very thing Dean had just done. Cas was awake for hours afterword, keeping his eyes closed and wrapping himself as much around Dean as he could. He knew it was something he couldn’t take back, something that he hadn’t meant to say just then.

Something he could say now.

Cas tilted forward, trailing soft kisses from Dean’s forehead down his nose. Dean kept his head held high, but his eyes were downcast, lips parted, his face red. The intoxicating fact that Cas could return the favor - that he could say those three words back and they would definitely be wanted - made it hard for him to actually do it. He slightly enjoyed this flustered Dean.

But that wouldn’t be a good end to the story.

Cas’ lips found themselves hovering over Dean’s. Cas shifted backwards, just enough to see Dean’s eyes, which finally flicked up to meet his.

“I loved you first.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so fucking sorry i kinda fell of the face of the earth. this is the longest thing ive written that ive actually finished and sometime in the middle i started second guessing myself about a lot of it. anyway, its all up there now. im probably not going to write anything else thats destiel, so... sorry about that too probably. ill probably write fanfiction about other shit though, so i guess you'll just have to get lucky about knowing what the fuck im writing about lmao sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> I would suggest you listen to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LX3_sPX1HXw
> 
> Because that's literally the piano piece I based theirs off of.


End file.
